spill

a sounding in the deep heart
pounding;
deepen this heart
these sundrop days
in this oilspill ocean.

all life flees
or languishes here;
every advent
becomes lent,
this month of waiting
turns,
Christ’s mass is fleet
ing
awaiting the mission,
in need of the returning
passion,
the turning calling
churns if spurned.

these eyes
begin to flood
on this rainpelt
twilight
following the icemelt
fortnight.

i am ready,
waiting.
may the brown
hidden last autumn
rise and turn bright red.
i pray your sleeping eyes notice.

remedy the spill,
dry this face,
till this soil.





spill
a poem by
troy cady