Puddles of pain paint April paths
as stubborn ice melts to streams
A muddy Dalmatian of spring
where wistful milkweed roots in lakeside shore
arriving just in time for summer’s monarch.
A voiceless field preacher recites
synoptic hues of titian gospel and
sun stained wings cast leadlight on unturned stones —
each sitting on a silent soliloquy
What was really buried under these rocks?
Summer sins dug deep in dirt.
Snowflake silhouettes I felt last winter.
Thoughts I choose to bear alone
and texts I haven’t sent.
Songbirds chime the dawn brass
I kneel in my sun-filled chapel
I repent —
Praying quietly under the grace of wings
Yes, your words bend on impact and they have an important effect.
So Tod [A stakeholder] and I were talking about a feature to implement, but whenever I would approach him with a critical decision, we would get tangled up in details and we could never arrive at a conclusion…