Frost clung to hay fields this week, 
leaving the fragile broken. 
The rigid frame remains.
The seeds have fallen. 
Some will provide sustenance, 
some will die in the dirt, 
be resurrected in the spring. 
Until then we wait through the winter as the darkness falls, 
we wait for life reborn.
"Transition is the sacred place of a watchman waiting. It’s the place of dying to self, to the past, and what is taken for granted, in preparation for a new awakening on the horizon. It’s a co-mingling of grief and hope with the tattered edge of purpose sewn into the spine of the story He’s writing with your name on it."  Shelly Miller, Redemption's Beauty
Sharing in Community at Sandra Heska King's Still Saturday 


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