I've taken down the axe

I've taken down the axe

Forty-four years of silence.
That ought to tell you something!

You'll run out of words 
one day, You assure me.  

Then, we can have a conversation.
You left a fire in the hearth 

before You abandoned me.  Now 
I'm ice-and-snow-bound, up to the eaves.

I've taken down the axe, dismantling
the furniture to keep the fire roaring.

Next comes the floorboards,
the joists and rafters, studs and laths.

Lord, let me be steady in my faith!
There is a method to this forgoing,   

this solitude and immurement.
If not . . . it matters little what I do --

all is for naught -- my life and future
cold, bleak and barren as the yonder landscape.

O child of God, let the Beloved find you
steadfast and acquiescent among the ruins.