Red tips, flaming fingernails

at the edge of rough grey branches.

Waving, curling, pointing,

to defy winter’s grip.

A shout when the world is quiet.

Hope when the world is dull.

Life when all is dead.

Note: This poem is part of my Lenten discipline, in which I attempt to cultivate space and quiet in order to hear from God and respond with poetry. This particular tree inspired two poems; read the other one here.

One thought on “Fire

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