Notes About The Poem
Written on October 18, 2025
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Broken Things
Weasel sits, quiet like the still
that writes clearer
than the hectic rise of my pen
when the storm lingers,
on the wings of autumn’s light
the still comforts
the still decides what glows
burning through the dark
leaving shadows, my heart distraught
will she listen – as he breathes
the echoes of mountains
defiant and reassuring at the same time
echoing praise with each day
each moment I’m praying
for the colors to remember
to heal him of the distant flow
a river of chemotherapy
and radiation, and my mind
willing him to heal – as my heart
prays, on and on…
echoing the beat, a rhythm
softly praising
the One who I know will nurse him
back to normal, back
to the time before cancer’s crime
weasel sticks by his side
and I silently cry
but the moment is too brief
and he doesn’t know
how my heart bleeds
as my soul believes…
He is like the wind,
I can only pray, that he will
blow this way,
oh, just stay, just stay…
cancer has no strength
when Jesus makes it clear
He is with us, mending, healing
restoring broken things –
that is what He does, who He is
a renovator, a preserver
the restorer of what I know
is meant to last and last
Weasel eyes him, silently
knowing, knowing…
and I feel him study me
wondering what is to be
but I feel the love that believes
Jesus will heal so I can keep
this love that sometimes
causes me to break down and weep.
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