Everything is His.
the door, the door jamb.
The wood stacked near the door.
The leaves blown upon the path
that leads to the door.
The trees that are dropping their leaves
the wind that is tripping them this way and that way,
the clouds that are high above them,
the stars that are sleeping now beyond the clouds
and, simply said, all the rest.
When I open the door I am so sure so sure
all this will be there, and it is.
I look around.
I fill my arms with the firewood.
I turn and enter His house, and close His door.
Everything is His.
Everything is Hers.
The bore, the log jamb
The wood lying in the field
The forest dying to make us doors
The trees are dropping into oblivion
Wind of change are tripping beings this way and that way
The storm of human conflict not above us
the gods that are sleeping now beyond prayers
And, simply said, there is no rest.
When a child moves aside the plastic door she is so sure
that the garbage dump will be there, and it is.
She looks around
And fills her arms with toys made of trash
And turns to enter His house, Her house.
Do we close the doors of our hearts?
Everything is His.
Everything is Hers.
Everything is Ours.
What tragedy calls out to you this morning and is it yours?
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