With A Love Yet Creative


The hours remaining,

Fewer, more precious,

Still unfold in ways

Startlingly unexpected.

Detours, distractions.

Plans ripped to shreds.

Beginning, yet again.

And then, again, once more.

I am, today, no where

I’d have ever dared imagine

work in progress?


Unless progress might be

Measured in steps

Not my own.

Perhaps those gentle hands,

The ones which

Formed, and shaped,

And fashioned from dust,

Still attend, still guide,

Quietly, tenderly, humbly,

With a love yet creative

As from on that first day.

May it, I pray, ever be so.


Image Credit: Pixabay.com

Copyright 2016

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