Stumbling Upon Akeldama in Winter

Empty lot: cursed
soil burned black
by the raging fires
of summer sun, parched
as a dead man’s lips. Yet

winter rains bring thick
skin of green, the moist
breath of grasses, the fluttering
heartbeat of insect wings,
and their echoing hymn:

Nothing dead must
stay that way.
Morning light brings
night’s decay.

Matthew J. Andrews

Based in Modesto, California, Matthew J. Andrews is a private investigator and writer whose poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Dewdrop, The Jewish Literary Journal, Spirit Fire Review, Braided Way Magazine, and Amethyst Way, among others.

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