Ann Horn

Stripped in the presence of him for whom pretense is offense, bared intentions stand stark- till He wraps me with him in graveclothes, whitened by blood. . . . . Continue Reading »

In primal garden  the tree  stands laden,  splendor  consummate,  grace-rooted,  owned by him  who warns,  don’t eat or  sure you’ll die. Yet you,  arrogant Adam  in us all,  grasp prerogatives never due. Thrust out,  . . . . Continue Reading »