Spring Is . . . A Strange Word for a Season, Really

Yesterday, Time was lapping at our ankles.

It's turned into something almost deep enough to drift in, now.
If we stand still and wait for a whisper, we can't help but see the waters rise.

Time carries our hope on his wings,
and Mortality bears us on his.
All until the day they meet; eternity is unmasked;
Time flies away, finally freed;
and hope fulfills his path, becoming memory.
We will know every promise of Truth fulfilled,
because Jesus is faithful.

P.C. Mom

P.C. Mom

"In fierce March weather
White waves break tether,

"And whirled together
At either hand,

"Like weeds uplifted,
The tree-trunks rifted

"In spars are drifted,
Like foam or sand."
~W. Shakespeare