AT FORTY-FIVE

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.

S.S. 1972