imagine—
that it is not the hearing
but that pause between
the word leaving the lips
and when it begins
to tickle our ears.
imagine—
between the first note
of the bird in the morning
and it sinking into
the weariness of our hearts
that a word waits—
a seed tinier than that
mustard seed in Jesus’ hand,
holiness wrapped in hope.
imagine—
all we need
is to cup our hands
like furrows in the dirt
and as silence falls
like gentle spring rain,
grace grows even
if we forget to listen.
that it is not the hearing
but that pause between
the word leaving the lips
and when it begins
to tickle our ears.
imagine—
between the first note
of the bird in the morning
and it sinking into
the weariness of our hearts
that a word waits—
a seed tinier than that
mustard seed in Jesus’ hand,
holiness wrapped in hope.
imagine—
all we need
is to cup our hands
like furrows in the dirt
and as silence falls
like gentle spring rain,
grace grows even
if we forget to listen.
(c) 2025 Thom M. Shuman
Venmo: @Thom-Shuman
No comments:
Post a Comment