Smother me, Lord.
Let the hard harness of darkness,
drawn from far away,
be mine.
Stark traces card my back.
Shuttered under thunder-gray cocoon,
lines of pleasant places waste to penury.

And praise—
With grace born of lifting other faces
toward a fingernail of moon,
be Thine.

kyle_lehmanMr. Lehman is a teacher and poet who loves to watch things grow, like seeds, strange ideas, hay bales, and the moon.

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