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 mange white doves’ wings
And char the angels’ mouths so they don’t sing.
There is no word to loiter in my veins.
Shawn R. Jones
(Womb Rain, Finishing Line Press, 2008)