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Blinds down, withdrawn into itself;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.

 

Ariel
Jan 9, 2007