I collect the fragments of yesterday

And the wispy tendrils of tomorrow.

Standing in a void of time

Wedged between the bulges of my hourglass.

I place memories and wishes

In a basket made of thorns.

My sweaty palm blisters

From its death grip on the handle.

A looking glass behind me mocks

Like wicked witch, cackling failure and doom.

If I turn, alas the fate of all men – death,

Will come too soon. But welcomed?

The Son pierces weighty clouds above

Called by songs of praise and love.

My mirror, enemy of my soul, backdrop of

a redeemed past.

Sparks, ignites like withered twigs.

The thorny collection on my arm

Takes light

In a moment blazing offering

Of yesterdays, tomorrows and

Pours forth a mysterious fragrance

Of sweet, redeemed pain.