God who names darkness,
turn on the stars
in this cold lonely night,
seemingly unending,
vast and so unsure.

If the brave ones are silver,
then I have tarnished since we spoke.
Rusty, forgotten,
tinted orange and hard to see,
I do too much waiting,
and lately,
You seem late.

God who makes strawberries,
tear drops, and
Spring,
make me brave,
brave as a strawberry,
growing red and loud and new under quiet, icy cold.

God who is quiet,
if you will not tell me,
turn on the stars and
show me where to see.