A Little Light

The soil yields
as God allows it
to yield,

but there are
certain things
He will not give:

a little light
to soften
the sun,

a gentle breeze
to cool
my brow,

a sweet word
to make
me turn

and nod
and know
that I can rest

and savour
the sun
as it sets;

a song to follow
my shadow
home to,

A Little Light

indulging quietly
the mystery
of this world

before
it is taken
by the night;

warm bread
fresh
from the oven

and dusted
with flour,
cooling

between us
over grace,
then broken

and shared
and eaten
with love.

Every morning
I arise
to meet Him

half-way.
I turn
my hand

A Little Light

to the business
of living.
I sink

my spade
into His soil
and turn it

over
to glisten
in the sun.

I have shaped
this land
with my hands

and planed
the clapboard
of this house.

I have pared
the world
given me

down
to these things,
and shorn myself

of all
that might cloak me
in sin.

A Little Light

I have asked
only
for that breath

that might shake
the dust
from living

and unbind
the light
we have pushed

aside.
What use,
Lord,

these labours,
this tired kingdom
of two,

if we wither
together
in silence

and pass
from this world
unmourned?