Sunday morning poetry. Church; my words, spoken to me, shared lovingly to and with you. Second chance to make it right every Sunday for a year.

Do you see my side?
I certainly cannot see yours.
Foreign words spun
from cottonwood fuzz.

A tree
circles storing knowledge.
Good and evil burning
ash covering the world.

This is not about me ruling over you.
I would hope it is not about you ruling over me.
Fear divides the space
aggravate the mind.


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