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Thursday, February 14, 2013

On The Way Home

On the Way Home

Your house is closed
Blinds down, withdrawn into itself;
The arborvitae stands tall but squat,
Like abortive guards sullenly standing inside the fence. 

I half expect a padlock on the gate;
How can heaven look so forbidding? 

And yet as I drive by, the back light
Flares on; a flare in the dark night
Lets me know you’re there,
          You are right there at the door at this moment. 

I drive by still
And with heaven’s grace.

Jan 9, 2007

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