The wordflow began that day as the sky broke open and the lightning descended. To be honest I was half expecting Lakota to be spoken on the wind, or maybe language from one of the other tribes.
Green leaves shimmered on tree branches waving in the storm, and I knew there would be no angels this time. Only fragments of sentences, an idea floating here or there, I knew I must write.
Wordflow storms are like that sometimes, elusive, yet beautiful, and terrible all at the same time.
And in our brokenness sometimes the beautiful,
is no longer hidden.
Poetry and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed
Note: This is fiction….sort of.