Now I breathe me
down to sleep. . .

the winter’s turned. . .

I still have breath
and a trusty, good heartbeat,

which, on this earth,
now still plod on
though, in my haste,
I’ve plum forgot
to shed myself
and put my God on.

But, if I die
before I wake,
I pray you, God,
make sure to see,
that this perfect, faulty world of yours
and my freed up soul unfurled
will go right on
to reap a fuller, brighter bounty
than we, to date,
have ever reaped.

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

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