by Karl Zimmerman
They say: “Life has fluttered from the killdeer’s egg.”
I say: “I see gravel and eggshell, crushed.”
They say: “There is an empty tomb.”
I say: “I am a dead place, desolate.”
They say: “Look, hope rises.”
I say: “I see an empty nest, rubber-wrecked.”
But I despise despair.
And though my heart, shell-shocked and shy,
shrinks from another fruitless look—
the wind carries hint of wings.
My weary, speckled soul
here in this dusty byway—
A universe of graveled glory.
A nested emptiness knitted with melody.
A scarred wing wiping my weeping—
And a soaring, wind-swept cry:
“Arise, my Beloved!
Arise and come to the skies.”
Karl Zimmerman loves beautiful things.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy