the Whisperer whispers, and my storm runs out of itself
digital art RN
“Weeping may endure a night but Joy will blaze thru your morning,” ( Psalms scream via Time & all tempest) while
the Whisperer Himself sows Newness, like a Vineyard in my soul:
I go and branch like a branch; buds of healing break my wilderness. This cannot be. But it is.
The Whisper tends my dying graveyard like a Helper, a Server. Can all this be? But that’s the deadliest human storm :
Doubt.
Photograph : Don Ricardo, Unsplash
https://innerdialects.home.blog/2023/03/08/waiting-in-the-waiting/
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