Who saves a summer saint too often burned
When sermons yellow like the leaves of fall?
My mind dismisses everything I learned;
When winter comes my faith forgets it all.
I need a word to last throughout the years;
Three months are not enough to savor spring,
And blossoming flowers are sure to wane.
My plummeting desires are now fears;
Like falling suns they mangle white doves’ wings
And char the angels’ mouths so they don’t sing.
There is no song to loiter in my veins.
Shawn R. Jones
reprinted from Womb Rain (Finishing Line Press)