New Life
Standing tall
pure and white
it gazed on
the purple shades
bowing, bending, breathing
around it
in iris extravaganza.
Come to me
it seemed to call,
while the wild wind
blew the green leaves of life
back and forth.
The rusty earth
lay at its feet
in muddy mystery
allowing seeds to grow
and blossom beyond the buds.
Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies,
it remains just a grain of wheat;
but if it dies, it produces much fruit.*
I died during Winter’s long sojourn,
and am born now
into Spring’s fresh future
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Visio Divina (‘Holy or Divine Looking’) on Vincent Van Gogh’s painting Irises.
*John’s Gospel 12:24
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