At forty-five I find
Myself stripped bare.
What I see,
Having been ploughed, harrowed,
Harvested, gutted and burned over,
Is a used plot.
Yet having some notion of how God
Works and of what I am here for,
Knowing that I am fortunate to be
Wholly without cause for pride
This season, I lie quiet,
Gathering mulch. The light is dim.
It rains. Now I am visited by Him
Alone who loves me, whose Love names me
A field not without honor.