Faith / Poetry / Spiritual Bondage

Winter: Tales from the heart

The snow began to fall in the winter of her heart.

Shadowlands, mysteries, memories like twine;   unraveling – rising from the grave of her forgotten yesterdays.  

Sitting. Walking. Waiting.  Searching the lonely forest;  

The midst of uncertainty, the fog of confusion.

Christina Dawson

 

Laughter was heard beyond blue mountain, the sound of forever whispering through the falling snow.  

Moonbeams, hidden pathways, silver tassels across the land.    

The eternal pines reaching upward, longing to enter the court of the Holy One.

One step at a time.  One foot after the other. Walking along.

Like a child swaddled in her bosom, she carried the questions.  

Silent.  The wood, was silent.  

A fearful glance behind, a twinkle of light, stardust moving in shades of gray .  

The Needles, the Northstar, the wheels of night began to spin in motion.

Turning the handle on every door, to every tree — locked.  

The narrow pathway – lost.   

The jagged cliffs of deception casting shadows over the the life giving springs,

now frozen by the consequences of time.    

Christina Dawson

Dark and uninviting, the eyes of the forest peering, watching;  

 A thousand arrows, on a thousand hills,  from a thousand stately warriors.    

A cry from the deep was caught up in the gusts of her weeping;  

the cosmos shook;  stars dropped like apples from a tree.  

Showers of fire-light broke through the canopy of night:  

illuminating the walls of the city, broken;  the ruins of an ancient town laid waste.

There was war in the heavenly’s.  

The tall tree’s were brought low.  

The scent of embers burning, traversed the valley of unspoken sorrows.  

The sparrow of hope lay wounded at the foot of the Royal Oak.

Ashes, piles of rubble, the remnants of wood, hay and straw.  

The watchman raised the semaphore;  The bells on hills, in chapels ringing.  

You could see the Dawn from the East, the Morning appeared clothed in the light of the Sun;  

Dressed like a King for his Bride.  

A kaleidoscope of colors piecing the horizon.  

Mercy from his scepter, like steam from a pot, poured over the wounded land;  holding in the palm of his hand the tears of the saints.

The smell of sweet hope rising,  like a Phoenix from the fire ,

ascended from the bed of pine beneath her weary feet.  

 The snapping of twigs, the exhale of her breath, the cold tip of her nose bathed in the warmth of the morning sun.  

Peace broke loose on the wind, the sound of a hundred sea ships sailing could be heard bearing toward the port of her deliverance.