The wick is quick
the days slow down
to short. . .

the candle of the sun
may seem to burn
its hot and brightest

just before
it really settles in
to take its winter night rest

and the mettle of our soul
amid the dark
will face travails
through ways and months of cold,
where we will be tested
to the mightiest. . .

the growth
that may be seen and felt
once to the other side
will prove of great import. . .

but first,
the passage we traverse
is apt to be the fright-iest.

This entry was posted in Autumn, Medium Length Poems, Poetry, Prayer, Seasons, Spring, Uncategorized, Winter and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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