Sonnet: In Touch
“. . .when I asked a corner preacher, I couldn’t hear him for my youth.
Some people get religion, some people get the truth.”
Brandi Carlile
Give up the Ghost
Fine line between, the raven seems to know,
cerulean, storm-shock answer to my prayer.
Under the aspens’ weary, slight shadow,
forced to take in a bold breath of thin air.
Approach the same mountain, another view,
the astounding asymmetrical tree.
Rushing, stiff breeze, must be enough of you,
for the unnested bluebird to believe.
Your touch, tender white blossom on my face,
promise scent, of seasoned dust and snow.
Some wait, abandon flesh to see your grace,
my soul, anchored by moss steps of stone.
Structure and verse, outline a narrow path
found, larkspur wandering, on my way back.
