Sanctuary: Donna Weber-Adams

From within the sanctuary,
where in summer, sparkling emerald green lawns are dotted with
colourful, fragrant gardens and old growth trees,
an esteemed voice chides me
“Absurd”.
My heart skips a beat, conscious of angst whispering a warning.
From within the sanctuary,
wherein autumn, the leaves of the old growth trees turn
the brilliant colours of the sunset, then wither and fall,
a saintly voice scorns me
“Falsehearted”.
My spirit, breathless, shivers, conscious of a wicked seed germinating within my soul.
From within the sanctuary,
where in winter, the branches of the old growth trees are barren,
and a frosty haze shadows the snow covered, sleeping gardens,
a judicious voice condemns me
“Toxic”.
My soul fractures and fragments, embittered and vengeful.
At home,
where in springtime pussy willows and daffodils blossom
in the warm sunlight and tepid rain,
my heart and soul, struggle to be free.