IF HEAVEN CAN WAIT
The scratch of the lantern on an old
barn board : like reading Robert Frost
in the dead New Hampshire night.
Shadows abound, nothing moves.
Why and how have I come to this,
I do not know, will never know. I
just accept - the wavering forms on
the barnside wall, the task of that
chicken pecking its ground, the
dim memory of years back, when
the abandoned truck in the weeds
was yet running. If Heaven can wait
for perfection, for the needle of things
to be threaded and ready, I cannot.
Dismay sets in, the doubting moon tries
hiding behind clouds, the night overtakes
just everything else. If Heaven can wait,
I then cannot. I must take care of grace
myself, for these moments of
goodness will never last.
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