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.
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