Merciel

The storm recedes but not the damage. Words
have salted soil, silence has whithered fruit.
The trees are stones as hearts made cold by a-
cid rain from stingy clouds and selfish games.
The desert reigns this des’late place. No life
remains. All crushed by falling bridges. But

I birth new life from death. The broken bridg-
es fuel new fire and clears away old brush,
rejuvenates the frozen earth with warmth.
The wounds the plots to cast new seed, pink petals
to mend the wounded, thorns to prick the snakes
who smuggled sin inside this holy place.

The Babel tower bursts from mustard seeds
and smothers the world in its canopy.