The tree, it stretches up heavenward high, emerging from the depths of ash and earth. The dirt, the humus, dark as night-black sky as if the hand of God calls forth my worth. Behold my grace through vessel, see my love in bark-covered-twisted-winter-dead tree. Life perches here affirmed by thorn and dove, terra firma to winter sky, now free. The tree awaits what I await: the Spring. I find the Stabat Mater here; her cry. A Death transformed to life, first-fruit bearing, One branch, finger-like calls me forth, to die. “Here I will sit and rest awhile” in thee, My Lord, I cry, who saved a wretch like me. Advertisement Leave a Reply This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed. Subscribe Notify of new follow-up comments new replies to my comments