Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Forge fire,
smelted down,
the iron hearted spark
dancing in the palm of Your hand
finds itself,
more pleasing than before,

Adam,
firstborn,
your sin no greater than my own,
too, knew that which awaits outside
Eden’s door,
does us good

from the dust,
in the midst of summer,
ashborn,
our inheritance the thorn
amidst the soil,
in the soul,
born again