Jacob's Grip

The lost page ages,

the dream wakes reluctant,

a message in watery ink

slithers away.

So soon the sun warms a brick pillow.

The first thirst to rise

is for regret redone.

Repent is the brand new name

of gathered dew overflowing.

Mercy whispers, “Wisdom

is a kiss in the cleared mirror.”

God’s promise is the premise

of the day’s smile,

laugh at yesterday’s grip

and hold the folded

Hands.