Christmas Poinsettia in Spring

The seasons pass.

What can such morphing mean

when blood bygone

goes gradually to green?

 

A birth, a life,

a calling and a name;

grace in falling,

gained and granted, then came.

 

Fullness flowing

freely through inner veins;

rivers channel

from reservoirs of stains.

 

One who tunes to

seasons of silence knows

truth’s worth and gain:

Life, in the giving, grows.

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