Phillips Creek

February, God, and I am done
with words for awhile — and you must be too;
budgets to bed, Christmas past,
letters crafted, prayers sent
and white, white
everywhere
in woods as still
as these.

Icicles clinging
the snow-crested branches,
creaking in quiet and bitter cold,
as granular ice slips underfoot
and crossing the frozen creek I stumble
to rise the beauty you’ve spun around,

the edge where you’ve been waiting me,
where day speaks to day
and night to night,
and though no utterance is heard,
throughout the earth —
to its very edge
their voice arrives

and so do I.

Whisper me
in quiet, God,
whisper me
in life.

— William B. Jones, Feb. 2009 (italics from Psalm 19)

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