Splinters

How can it be

that you have more

thoughts about me

in a day

than there are

grains of sand?

Such a tragedy

that the branch

you hand my thoughts

to alight on yours

too rarely lands

The days in which I stand

I find your hand

your hand

your hand

that feeds and

mends my splinters

so that I fly

where I once ran

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How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them,

Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand. Psalm 138:17