Love and dust

Love and dust                                                                                            
 
Such a lost cause, I must believe
You’ve taken me up, perhaps,
 
for another lifetime’s sake,
though I still entertain romantic thoughts,
 
even at this late date, of my flesh becoming
love and dust at Your feet.
 
A bloodless scarecrow, foreign in the field;
where a spine should be, a rough-timbered rood,
 
a weathered, rummaged exterior,
heart of straw, whose dream is to become
 
a torch visible for miles but unseen now
where I am braced in the autumn chill,
 
late-night, lonely vale; my essence
then wind-scattered, such as it is,
 
blending ash with dust, to cling lightly
to Your striding, clean, golden-threaded hem
 
as You make Your way home
from the fields of Your labor.
 
O child of God, may your romanticism
lure you into the arms of His Reality.