The First Frost
The first frost
Comes out like frozen razors,
A sheet of silver paper
Thrown up by the fretting earth.
I walk barefoot expecting a
Million lacerations but only
Receive a thank-you note
For my courage.
The pregnant heat of my feet
Makes tracks with no cadence or
Design. Those mottled impressions
Take their deformities to a weathered bench.
I sit waiting for your rebuke,
No tender remonstrations but
A firm voice, without suggestions.
A bare minimum of advice:
Stay seated, cease your travels
Until the voice you hear
Names the son above all sons
And clears away desire’s debris.
Wayne Bornholdt is a retired bookseller who specialized in academic works in religious studies and theology. He holds degrees in philosophy and theology. He lives with his wife and three dogs in West Michigan where he works on his tennis game and writing.
Amethyst Review 