CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter
My spirit was without
so I was “moved”
by my muse
raspberry jam
on her face, as usual
to write a poem
which started as
“My spirit is dry
I have but memories…”
which reminded
of the story
about the preacher
who prayed,
“We are but dust…”
And a little voice
piped up with, “Mommy,
what’s butt dust?”
The muse said
that it was now
time to “end”
the poem
Nobody wants to hear
butt memories
JRMcF
johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com
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