to Repentance,
tangled in traffic of
the heart, listening to
psalms on the radio.
At the intersection of
Hope and Regret,
I check with fevered eyes
for later flights, but find
no fixed times of departure.
A fragrance of doubt
clings like afternoon rain.
I lift my soul from the
pedal for one thin moment.
I'm late but on my way.
—Michael James Fitzgerald
Continue reading at the original source →