It feels like being asked to disregard the facts, the evidence, reality itself and play a game of make-believe where I deny the truth of what I see. And like the dwarves, I can’t, I won’t, but yet— why should I trust my judgement over yours as if I were the more clear-sighted one when I’ve been blinded by these bitter years? So fair enough, I'll play your make-believe at least a sonnet’s length or two, pretend he sees my tears and doesn’t turn away but whispers that he loves me, dream it ends with me, bone-weary, being given rest— yes, me, dirt-poor in spirit, being blessed.
You don't know me a whit, but I stumbled upon you from reading Sarah Rowell's blog. Thank you for these poems. They are beautiful, and I find comfort in the company; it is a balm to know that there are other sojourners with minds prone to wander, only to be drawn back again. To know that faithfulness can take different forms.
You don't know me a whit, but I stumbled upon you from reading Sarah Rowell's blog. Thank you for these poems. They are beautiful, and I find comfort in the company; it is a balm to know that there are other sojourners with minds prone to wander, only to be drawn back again. To know that faithfulness can take different forms.
This is beautiful and powerful Sarah. So much to contemplate here.