Winter’s Measure

Burn away all that is not love

And, worry is the last to go

It has long feathered its nest

In my breast a worrier of first rate

Niggling doubts and terrors of safety coddled

Valued according to potential longevity

Seriously, a good worry is hard to find

And even more difficult to replace

Take a clear, hard look at the nature of worry

And many vanish without a trace

Remainders do require a thorough examination

Then, after grief, fear, rage and all the jubilations

Are seen for what they are and stripped out

There remains, pure as moonlight in winter

Everpresent and deeper than frost’s heave

Dwelling underneath, in parts not dormant

There, an underground river, my promised heart

To always lay on the side of truth

One thought on “Winter’s Measure

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