Oh Ye of Little Faith
A month ago, you were sure
the morning glories would never rise.
A season of drought and the dry July sun had dried the earth
and the seeds, you were certain, had become dust.
But more often than not, death is not death at all,
and sure as love, with the late summer storms,
the flowers bloomed, fast and furious, with a mocking vigor,
laughing at your doubt.
About this poem
It could be about flowers. Those are, after all, the morning glories climbing all over my back porch. A month ago there was nothing.
But you know me, it could spirit, love, hope, or all of the above as well.