Three flowers drop from the vase
and remind me of Christ.
Dropping flowers pray secret prayers.
You can find many threes in stories.
They move quietly like night
when it masks itself in the robes of dusk.
I am becoming attracted to quiet
and the deep song of the night.
I am beginning to long for more
by accepting less.
Some woods have color
that bring out my softer complexion.
No matter how many words I say,
any true reflection seems hopeless.
Dropping flowers pray secret prayers.
Candle flames speak volumes
towards God.
I am still rubbing sticks together.
