Paradox

How poor indeed
this structured clay
to bear about
a human soul . . .

How frail and counterfeit
our words,
with Heaven’s dialect
our goal.

Pilgrim

Oh God, remind my heart
to beat,
my lungs to draw
their breath.
I’ve stumbled on
Eternity
in seeking
only rest.
How can a voyager
tired of strife,
and wanting
peaceful shores,
finding there
Your door ajar
return to duties here . . .

Since May 25, 2005

©2001 Shirley Anne Leonard
Microsoft® Clipart