Sunday, May 4, 2014

no quick fix

Too small, he moved too much,
each leaving wound
a spring tight in his chest,
hair-trigger snares 
like nightshade sown
into a fruited soul.

Then he turned five
and sprung a leak,
unwinding wounds we
hoped were healed,
now tripped and spilling
purple down his shirt.

We keep him still,
or try, by clumsy hand
to mind and tend
the tender places,
blindly pressing 
band-aids over broken bones.

1 comment:

Tamara Murphy said...

God bless you, dear ones as you minister healing to Zeke. God bless his dear heart.