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"Fruit of the Branch"

Fruit of the branch
is how the soil remembers
the abundance of heart—
roots drinking deep
from hidden covenant,
sap rising like prayer
through the marrow of wood.

Each season bears witness:
figs swelling in their time,
olives pressed for oil,
grapes gathered into silence
before the feast.

The ground does not forget.
It holds the imprint
of every rain,
every hand that tended,
every tear bottled
and poured back as growth.

So the harvest speaks—
not in ledgered sums,
but in sweetness,
in bread and wine,
in the quiet testimony
of branches that endured
the long night
and still bore fruit.

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“Gather up the fragments,
that nothing be lost”—
so even crumbs
become a silo of abundance,
stored against famine,
a whisper of Joseph’s barns.

The night keeps count
of every restless turning,
each tear stoppered
in an unseen flask,
a vintage sorrow
kept for the day of pouring.

The soil remembers
every hand that tills it,
every seed pressed down
into the dark—
and the mountain waits,
where a feast is laid,
and death itself
is swallowed whole.

Garments gleam:
robes of salvation,
linen bright with testimony,
woven from mercy,
from oil kept burning
through the long delay.

Yet at the edge,
a figure stands unrobed,
silent,
as if waiting to be clothed
by a covenant not yet claimed,
or by compassion
that still lingers at the door.

And in the end,
all things are braided—
loss and gain,
silence and song—
woven toward a good
we glimpse only in part,
yet trust as whole,
where the Bridegroom waits,
and the Bride makes herself ready.

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"Fragments Gathered"

“Gather up the fragments,
that nothing be lost”—
so even crumbs
become a silo of abundance.

The night keeps count
of every restless turning,
each tear stoppered
in an unseen flask,
as if sorrow itself
were vintage,
kept for the day of pouring.

What we labour for,
though hidden,
is never in vain—
the soil remembers
every hand that tills it,
every seed pressed down
into the dark.

And in the end,
all things are braided—
loss and gain,
silence and song—
woven toward a good
we glimpse only in part,
yet trust as whole.

.

The Missing Scroll

They said: is it not written…
but the page is torn away.
We search the silence,
finger the seam where ink once lived.

Faith begins here—
not in triumph,
but in the ache of absence,
the wound of a vanished word.

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