And the bird whose lost her wings cannot fly. Flying is but a temporal port. It is soaring, eternal both ordinary – quite exquisite… deeply marked into being on plane…. wigwam/bip- and fly.~Krissy
Dear God…. you know the voices of many- in urban jungles like this. The concrete stays inflamed. Her heat is without satisfaction. Lonely musicians harp cords into galley- ways.
Afar off the city writes letters to the dead. Why haven’t you come home? Why haven’t we made this place home? Who’s left to shed blood? Whose smiles are forgotten?
Who is now to abide … Tribulation, degradation, violations, so what is…. what is…. alleged convictions of twisted morality, “Our fathers sit on benches” with their submissions in toe…~Krissy (photo taken by my personal camera this past winter)
Dear God, preserve our very lives.-Krissy
Finding myself, in a quiet place early in the morning. While the trees relieve its sap. The never sleeping squirrels nibbling on acorns. Summer showers and sun-rays fashion bows across the sky. Looking beyond: it has aligned us to be here, to be – alive, to feel its warmth and know – heavenly eyes are upon us.~Krissy♥
Image photo: pixabay.com