A Lily Over Glass – a poem by Hannah Hinsch


Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow;  
they toil not, neither do they spin... 
Matthew 6:28 KJV 
Here, there is only a release. 
A falling against  
the space at the center 
where rain dapples my face 
and all is quiet. 
Silver mountain water 
shapes my voice, 
caught in swallow’s call.  
Let the moment fall over you, 
swell over your feet. 
It asks only  
for your release. 
Notice where it pulls  
and where it stops to 
curve around you, this  
current from fracture. 
Made from the silver skin 
of deep earth,  
it grounds you  
and keeps you  
A lily over glass 
Glass pearled in mist 
breaks over my head.  
Brine-drenched arms reach,  
hands splay  
toward nameless shore.  
I watch the seagull, 
a specter in gray, 
bow to the water’s edge. 

Hannah Hinsch is a Seattle-based writer who graduated summa cum laude from Seattle Pacific University with a degree in English Literature and fiction. She was the editorial intern at Image journal, a leading quarterly that joins art and faith, for two years. Hannah writes across genres, and finds her impetus among Greek mythology, the Old and New Testament, and in the green, salt-soaked Pacific Northwest. Hannah not only sees writing as an exercise in aesthetics and attentiveness, she leans into writing as a way of knowing, a hermeneutic of God.  

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