The high country, flowers bloom.
A cold March wind, with hope of warmth.
She is gone to heaven, but is in my dreams.
This world feels cold, even as summer comes.
Riding my bike on aging subdivision streets.
I try to fill my head with thoughts of her,
And the merciful savior she was a devoted to.
I would give anything in my world to be a good man.
Is grace a whitewashing of cruelty, is it something real.
I adore her and follow her kindness into the sun.
I want to be brave and kind as she was.
Will adoration of martyrs ever bring a brighter heart?
I lay my bike in the grass, walk to her grave.
I thought the world was burning on the day she was killed.
The fires have only grown taller and hungrier.
May I be kind and brave, as another war comes.
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