A Still Small Voice Poem by Chris Ernest Nelson

The memories of my own beginning
are like clouds upon a mountain,
they rise and fall with the wind;
one day as heavy as burdens
and the color of chains,
the next as light and
airy as feathers and
forgiveness.

The dearest of my children are pain
and the loneliness of knowing.
Caresses that should be gold
were as cold as rough iron
and just as hard to bear,
and sweet tenderness
a crumb I ate alone
in hunger.

Still shining among native shadows,
in light from an unfamiliar home,
is the claim I make against my
own childhood promise
of a better love and a
comfort that calls
to me in a still
small voice.