Through the fire, thicket thorn
As the broken branches mourn
I cup your face, a slate newborn
My most familiar clean
Losing limbs, you regrew me
Writing pages, chapter three
Our scribbled star filled history
Flowing within the green
Outward inward, now a balm
Holding growing in our palm
Singing loudly every psalm
As one, we plant unseen
_____
Photography: The Shalom Imaginative