poetry

epistle, apostle

epistle, apostle
these words are dross,
tempest-tossed
in the white wind, yet
he makes his messengers winds
and raises his apostles
as pillars of fire.
Say you are tired
and He will use you
anyway, whirling into columns
the scraps you scatter
and making spring trees
from the remains of winter verse.
He takes your words
said to none and the ghost-gait
of your daily walk, and makes
their blood to out
in the snow-laden streets.
The gory prints of a courier,
arriving in the city.
Spring is coming,
the cycle is ending.
The palace of frozen sighs
will give way to rivers,
a sea and a torrent
under the rising sun.

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