Wind of the early spring is a

hard-bitten woman to whom it

seems I turn my face for sake of pain,

for test of mettle. She draws me

dry of idyllic bliss, makes me

work the harder for my

sense of standing straight up

in this world. There is no care

in her bluster and though she is

cold and capricious, I lean into her

harsh graces and divide her

as a woodwedge melded of earthen

mineral, wrought from spit and

fire. I curse my trials until I am

conscious. Then, I see the love in

what I would not choose.

This night I am Samuel,

hearing that voice calling, thinking

it of the human realm when

stars are resonating with

the original dream and

carried to me on

wind of early spring.

Speak Lord, your

servant is


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