summer poem

The breeze
wends its way
down the alley
and stirs the flowers
that have survived
the heat of day.

So, too, the coolth
of reason
stirs briefly
along the corridors
of my heart.

O Lord who made
the flowers
and makes
the breeze blow,
do not take from me
what I have recently
come to know:

that broken
and alone
does not mean
that life is done.

Like the flowers,
we survive
the mid-day sun

and wait
for calmness
when the day
is done.

em