Sinner Sinner by Christine Anne Borra

I am a sinner of great degree
I wish to list my sins for Thee

But where I start, its hard to know
My life You said is like driven snow

So you see dear God do you need to hear
My list of sins said loud and clear

I think you should in all Your might
Know the sins I committed alright?

For what is the purpose that I must bestow
To You my sins you already know?

And how on earth will an earthly prayer
Miraculously make sins disappear

So it seems the act of contrition be
Less about You and more about me

Amen

The Gardener by Christine Anne Borra

roses show and mingle, clipped tight against
the white steel frame of the old wire fence
nurtured from unwanted sticks, like children

across the worn driveway crimson petals spill
announcing the end; their bloom brief and delightful
as their moment ends, another competes for place

the gardener administers brutal love as she cuts
and trains, the vase of life for a while is full
until the last petal falls exposing her work

now vulnerable arms stretch from mature roots
unsure and naked they face the harshness of winter
are they strong enough to endure the elements of life

the coming winter has stripped them bare to the waist
it is useless to cry for their lost youthful beauty
so they grow thorns upon thorns of protection

forgotten for now; they will lie dormant
until the burst of new life brings them back
to the notice of the gardener, to marvel again

her handwork, her legacy, pruned to create perfection