Deborah Seale Poet Rhyme

Wounds we mistake

With blistered hands we reach for the things that are sweet, 

And gather the ashes that fall at our feet.

We barter for things that decay,

And cry when it all gets swept away.

We hide from the heat,

Believing every sting is our defeat.

Yet, these earthen vessels are broken before being filled,

The stone must be struck before the waters are spilled.

Our small comforts we guard and we run from the rod, 

We mistake our wounds for the absence of God.

We forget that oil is pressed, 

And the soul must be emptied before it finds rest.

The branch must be pruned before blossoms appear,

And joy that we seek is bought through the tear.

So open these hands that have clung to the clay, 

And shatter the jar for the dawn of the day.

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