in ourselves the golden ore stands sifted
through winter's trees the ghosts of bird calls thrum
as in our hearts recess from battle, respite
like some worn guest upon the threshold, comes.
time for a moment glistens in the winter air
snow for a moment lingers there
the snows of the heart from the worst of the fires spared
and what remains in us
God knows: and calls His own;
when with the brightening sun
the gold among the ruins flares.
mary angela douglas 19 january 2022
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