After Illness

Lord, it is time.
The sun is up, and I
(After long rest, Lord, if it was not sweet)
Must rouse my feet and rise. Outside
The small things run. A wounded sparrow, fleet,
Falling, re-wings and dares on high
Its world and mine.

No world with ease.
The earth, furrowed with pain,
Drinks in cold showers. Deep calls unto deep.
They know who weep by Bacca’s wells long time,
While seedlings shoot and waters seep,
How long before they see the grain
Or green, sweet leaves.

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About middlingpoet

From the Gawain poet to Rainer Maria Rilke: I love traditional poetry.
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