by Kendra Thompson

My heart is an apple; bruised, handled, greased.
My mind – a ravenous bloodthirsty wolf.
Yet you hold the apple, you made the beast;
with love, you’ve leapt beyond this vast gulf.
Who can correct them, the things of the heart?
And who dares quiet the mind’s wicked threats?
The east from the west, you’ve smoothed far apart.
And the map of my life holds zero regrets.
Giver, I want one more hour of sleep.
Maker, I charge you to work on me still.
Keep me from harm, from my own weakness, keep.
Adhere, bind and anchor me close to your will.
Though I am plain fruit made from your clay,
shine through this creature true light anyway.

Kendra Thompson is a wife, mother, writer and minister living in Northwest Iowa. Her work has appeared in Spectrum, Body Love for All, Poet’s Choice and These Interesting Times. You can find more of her writing on her blog www.crylaughsnort.wordpress.com

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