An inner coming away, beginning over again,
an outer rending, cracked in twain.
Thin, flaky crust of earth pie,
four and twenty red-wings rise to cerulean sky.
A birth, a break forth into song,
dragon-scale shedding, clawing along.
Molting, shutting the cold, old, yesterday’s door,
the sap-blood flowing once sweetly more.
The moving thickly, freshly born,
an emptied womb, a broken shell, forlorn.
Death awakes as life.
Flesh pink, scraped clean by ice-cold knife.
A besetting weight not easily scorned,
a gray emptiness, pain’s barrenness not mourned.
White and black birth, joy over green,
emptiness brings eyes to fullness, keen.
Torn away, rent, broken through,
clawed, sloughed, tapped, brand-new.
A.M. Pine invites you to sit on her deck, a place of reflection, wind tickling the edges of our hair, hot cuppa in hand. She invites you to join her in pondering the tension and intersection of faith, relationships, and nature. She grasps at the flickers of the eternal that shine out to her, as she goes about the mundane on her little Midwestern farm, Hearth Ridge. Gratitude and grace, beauty and literature, light and darkness, surround, swirl up around her, her husband, and six children. She wants to be aware, noticing every moment that she can. Her heart is hopeful and she hopes yours will be, too.