|Author:||Nola||Published:||over 3 years ago.|
She cups it in her hands, feels the faint flutter against her palms, returns it to its temporary home— the cavern in her chest. Casts her eyes across the day, her hope, a dimming lamp, that searches shadows on the plain for havens offering rest.
Time mocks her attempts, her portion’s almost gone, her vagabond heart could flatline for lack of care. It teeters, hesitates, prepares to fall.
He whispers her name, familiar stranger, she’s heard his voice before and almost followed once or twice, trust vacillates where broken dreams have called.
He holds out his hands. She sees the scars, gasps for air, catches his gaze, the power and gentleness there. An irregular pulse strains and strives towards its last heroic act. She puts her heart in wounded hands and feels the jolt of life.
© Nola Passmore; Published in Fruit of the Spirit Anthology of Christian Poetry (Ed. Betty Madill), Blue Butterfly Publishers, Inverurie, Aberdeenshire, 2010, pp. 19-20.