Beholding the embodiments of words that I’ve written is a peculiarity, and I know even more firmly
That it is, but isn’t up to me.
It really isn’t, and yet I’m given free rein
To make sacred spaces, in places like my heart
Or in the garden of an old house with withering birch trees obscuring its front.
A herald on the wind, lilacs by the walk –
See the light as you enter in, under the arbor,
Into an abode I was given, to make it my own and His –
For nothing other than the holy reasons of love and goodness.