Retreating light,
a comfort, seeping through
skeletal oaks, their veins pasted
against our memories, pulsing
with each brush of wind.
How long it took to
gather our hearts
against the dark
until the moon rose
with pallid expressions
of empathy.
For Tim
Siloam
Lay these tears
over each other.
Let them roll
and fall on down
like a five year old.
May they collect
and form a pool of Siloam
while we wait for angels to stir.
Lay these tears
over each other.
Let them magnify
our crippled hearts
in the reflection.
May Jesus help
us into the salt water
of our own weeping.
Gerald the Writer 