Wind
I’ve fallen to the winter’s dust
And nurtured on His blood.
I’ve aged like desert sages green
That lean to bend the bud.
I’ve ripened under bleaching sun,
The rain and drifting dearth.
I’ve taken root in sifting sands
That rock this gentle earth.
Long withered past the dewy crown,
My blossomed seed dispersed,
I hunger for His driven wind
And bend to quench my thirst.
Copyright © Mark Ackerson | Year Posted 2015
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