At some point
Having nothing to give got to me.
So I gathered stacks of artifacts
Crusted crowns and stolen thrones
And (hoarder that I am)
Hoped they could make me feel at home.
I’m chock full of treasures
And my heart sits here with them,
Waiting to not be alone.
It’s all collecting dust.
I still haven’t swept.
It seems I don’t know what it means to be kept.
And it also seems that
Nothing I possess brings back
That feeling as a child:
Tucked under watchful eye and weary smile
And warm beneath blankets that
Act as armor to the dark,
The low glow of night-lightning
And the echo glow beating in my breast.
I knew who I was, for I knew whose I was.
Perhaps being kept
Is becoming a child again,
And believing that my Parent is
Keep me close,
(Castaway that I am)
Hidden in the hold of Your heart
Nestled in the hole of Your hand.
“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to keep, and a time to cast away…”
Ecclesiastes 3:1, 6b
(Liturgical poetry during Lent is inspired by the Ecclesiastes 3:1-8. Photo by Linnea Wheeler.)