Living Tree Poetry

You love me even when,
I’m all angles
and brittle bones.

And I realise how,

it takes energy
to nurse a hurt,
or uphold a frown.

So, you love me

and soften me
as kneaded dough
under your gentleness.

That I flex
and stretch again,
within the moulding of your hand.

My tightness shed,
as you tend to me,
as lover and friend.

Finding the tense, bruised spots,
and ministering
your healing balm.

And I realise how,

I cannot not soften
and smile,
and spread

as warm bread
rising
under the warmth of your tenderness.

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
March 2019

‘So I went down to the potter’s house and saw him working with clay at the wheel. He was making a pot from clay. But there was something wrong with the pot. So the potter used that clay to make another pot. With his hands he shaped the pot the way he wanted it to be.’
Jeremiah 18:3-4