blessed

let it not be

thought that from the damage done

in youth rises the irreversible melancholy of despair

for the Lord is my rock

and my salvation

blessed is he who comes

and many are the angels who encamp

around the innocent who live

on and beyond the hard,

always toward the goal

of

peace

goodness

lies are where the truth starts

to win, the whole of it

pushed down only to rise

because

goodness stays pure

despite what those who can’t

handle freedom

may say or wish

away.

bare crooked seasons

the thing about winter

is not the cold but the bare

brave beauty that comes

from the letting go

of brown dead detritus

–a big word for the lost–

determined to resurrect life from the dark.

Shine, then, crooked

branches, reaching sunward with hope

always of spring,

and unafraid of the changing

seasons.