Anxiety is a free-fall from too-high-up,
Jetting toward the rock-hard,
Flailing in a grab-nothing way,
Screaming in a make-no-sound panic.
Anxiety is Good Friday.
Not in a Sunday’s-coming hope
In a hidden-through-Jerusalem grief.
Good Friday is dark Friday,
Good Friday is rough wood,
But a hyacinth I believed long dead
Is growing purple among weeds,
Pushing up through hard ground
With aroma sweet as hope.
Beautiful! Thank you!
Thank you, Robyn.
Oops…I wasn’t patient enough to wait for my first comment to show up. Oh well…your poem deserves 2 “beautiful”s.
Ha! I’ll take it! 🙂
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