Our Hands Can’t Reach Backward

Time’s furnace swallows
all our loves
and holds them in
an iron crucible.
As the years pass
what’s left
is the matter of truth.

If it’s gold
then rejoice
for the way is made.
If it’s ash,
then smear it upon your face
and walk boldly —
you are blessed
in your freedom.

If the smoke has not yet cleared,
look to the one
who sent you here.


by Kevin Trammel

About ktrammel

Author of Gathered Rain, which can be found on Amazon. Read more on my sites, Flowerwatch.net, or sophilos.net
This entry was posted in Poetry, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

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