Winter Walk’s Wait

Snow covered ground, lightly drawn through tiny, wild footed strokes

Morning cymbals tilt a horizons peak, to sunlight that has broke

Winters sheets, pressed and crisp that fold and form, smooth and white

Over landscape scars from summer days that burned so long and bright  

The Spirit hears a moaning groan, like notes born from heavy hearts

Ears strained to catch a prayer return, answered whole or in part

Wild silence booms and echoes strong against the vast of blue, cold sky

What other means to punctuate a pleading, voiceless cry

A promise sworn against all things that seem so pointed, cruel and plain

A transformed mind, a work of grace, efforts can’t attain  

Time, a measure built by busy, restless, reaching hearts

Countered by the Clockless One who pleas for trust, He will not depart