God folded his love over and over and over,
like a note from a childhood crush, until it
became small enough to fit in a thimble, a
feat quite impressive for such a grand God.
The thimble tumbled in the afternoon sun
and glistened just long enough for a little
girl to spy it in the corner of her room
and be intrigued. She tried it on for size
with fairy tale results as the love whirled
into the whorls of her finger then dove
beneath the surface of skin to harbor in
blood. Now, finally, love could begin its
grave unfolding, its fated spawn home.Most credos I’ve read start with the words I/we believe. I won’t do that, or maybe better put, I can’t do that. My credo, if it can even be called such a thing, rides piggyback on the slithering black curved back of the lovely question mark. I don’t have many answers, but I do have questions… John blogs at The Beautiful Due
Latest posts by Diane W. Bailey (see all)
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