Annunciation light breaks upon a chiaroscuroed stage.
Empty of armor, empty of pretense, empty of rage.
’Twas that nascent note of all crown’s clatter
dimly heard by those with ears to hear.
Now is the time to bring your spear
across the desert heat and there forge,
remake it into pruning hook, yea, reforge
bit by bit, your warring heart. Uplift
mired sinews caught in want of greatest gift.
Every branch, root and petal pleads, nay,
rejoices for the consummation of the day.
© rl busséll 2018