Alone
I will not leave you comfortless; I will come to you.
– John 14:18

When you are left all alone
on the last glacier,
blistered red by ice and sun,
and you shiver and sweat
as a blizzard of despair
pelts sharp sleet at you,
you will suffer its ruthless pain
piercing your face.
But stay.
Fall on your knees.
Face the heavens.
Cry out.
You will soon find that,
as the savage wind blows
over your shoulders,
you will feel the quiet warmth
of angels’ breath
as they whisper in your ears
the promise of hope.

Precipitation of the Soul

He will refresh us like rain renewing the earth in the springtime. – Hosea 6:3

When the heartaches of the world
weigh heavy upon me,
bearing me down onto the ground,
I look to the morning dew
gathered around me.
I long to become one
with its quintessential essence –
it’s earth-bound wetness – ,
to curl myself into translucent
pearl drops and cling to the blades
of spring-green grass.
From there I will evaporate,
rising to join the clouds
floating in the sky.
Fresh air will caress my mind,
blowing my troubles far away.
The delight of heaven’s sunlight
will replenish my spirits
and restore my soul.
Then I will gather with the clouds
around me and rain down
to the ground again.
But now I will arise,
washed clean,
and be reborn into the spring
of a brighter world.

Descending the Mountain
In the wilderness prepare the way for the Lord. – Isaiah 40:3

Late of a cloudy night
when even a full moon
offers scant light
and the stars hide their shine
behind the clouds’ charcoal smudges,
the ancient prophet makes his way
down the mountain path in silence.
But the weight of the prophecy he brings
deserves a processional befitting kings.
Not the chitter-chatter of silly bird-chirps,
but the timpani of rolling thunder,
so fierce it shakes the boulders loose
and causes bludgeoning rockslides.
This deep bass rumbling should be
accompanied by a frenzy of strings –
violins, cellos, harps –
found in the sound of whipping rain,
flooding the rivers 
and overflowing the dams,
spawning mudslides that carry
half the mountain away.
When he enters the temple,
the tree branches outside,
windswept by storm,
should play percussion, brushing
at the stained-glass windows
with the sound of his path
being swept clean.
Lightning should strike
with cymbals and brass,
it’s annunciation loud and strong
for the prophecy he brings:
“Arise, shine; for thy Light has come!”

Cynthia Pitman, from Orlando, Florida, USA, is the author of three poetry collections: The White Room, Blood Orange, and Breathe (Aldrich Press). Her work has been published in Amethyst Review, Spirit Fire, Heart of Flesh, Literary Yard, Saw Palm: Florida Literature and Art (Pushcart Prize nominee), Bright Flash Literary Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Third Wednesday (One Sentence Poem Contest finalist) and others, and in anthologies Pain and Renewal, Brought to Sight & Swept Away, Nothing Divine Dies, and What is All This Sweet Work?