By Leslie Scoopmire

Bedeviled by thoughts ominous and thoughts profound,
wreathing fog about my noggin, sheathing
perspective, restive, I
did not know how to spy the blue sky,
to believe it abides, though veiled,
beyond the steel-gray vault of cloud.

What to keep, what to fling away,
wheat and chaff, seed and soil, shell and sand–
I cannot clear the threshing floor of mind
nor shoulder the load alone.

My Heart’s Companion whispers, “Peace.
Be still.” Fists unfurl. And the breath of prayer
sends the draff and dregs eddying away.

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