It is the rain
Sweet sound
Gentle drops
Of morning
It is the rain
And it dismisses
The winter snow
The harsh ice
It is the rain
It is promise
Spring will be
Soon
Silent prayer,
Read aloud,
Keeping me
in a spiritual shroud.
Ashes wet,
Incense burned
the blessing given,
the sacred urn.
Oh the swirling of deafness
Inside my head,
I did not hear
One prayer said.
I only heard your voice
In the songs,
the missing of you
where you once belonged…
Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust,
I feel your presence
I feel your trust.
Christine McNeill-Matteson, copyright: 02/2015 Published by, Agathos International Review Humanities and Social Sciences,2069-1025 (Print); 2248-3446
Picked among a garden, this one unique rose,
taken from green thorns, this flower she chose.
Sat upon his desk, and nurtured from stems,
drenched in water, a vase, looking back at him.
The secret of this rose was not from the attending.
The secret of its beauty was from its sending.
Beauty in its temporal form and in nature’s bloom,
eternal rose, deep within, nurtured to the tomb.
An hour of time,
Eagle and Child Inkling 