On Porch at 10:13

She sits on a black-leather chair

before a slated, bluest-gray home,

first on the street that links to Bailey’s Lake,

shrubs overgrown encircle slow,

an afterthought left to winter’s frosty grip.

Smoking a little herb, more than I’d admit,

seeking a thread and needle to loop,

with words a poet cannot help but weave.

a fabric of rhythm, observed and true,

a corpus of praise offered back to Him.

I ponder mystery in pleasant North Carolina,

thinking, feeling, yearning even as I learn,

wanting to know You and to share that longing

with those beside me as I pass through

the same struggles all souls know.

Thus I am here, 10:13 eve, on porch outside in shorts,

writing in verse of longing fulfilled and hope,

the witness borne before all, for all, as Dust…

beholding the afterimage of Radiance,

glory searing, serene, severe, consuming form.

So Dust I remain, having glimpsed Glory,

tasted nectar so sweet and been transformed,

a lifelong love for the Author of Love born;

my scattered remains rain down, return to form,

gathered and held in Tender Hands.

I am one who has tasted a thousand delights,

yet found each morsel bitter in time.

Only One can truly satisfy —

Only Him,

Only You.

As always,

Dust

To You,

For You,

From Him,

In me, made new.