I have thrown down this spade
and with hands still covered in dirt, circled.
I know these limbs,
the little knobs and crooked angles,
have rested in the empty branches
and let the broken grooves catch my hair.
But for all of my time spent toiling,
pouring forth and tending,
It is You who speak the word of life.
Yesterday I was driving through the high plains of Western Kansas
when the sun was setting,
the sky a dusty pink and orange.
And every hill brought a slight change in direction
to and away from the sun
until there was a row of little black holes
blinking at me across the horizon
as my eyes strained to recover from the sun’s fierce glow.
It reminded me of one summer
when we missed the chance to say goodbye.
You walked out alone and threw me one brief glance
before stepping out of sight,
a glance so filled with emotion and things unspoken,
that I could only blink at the empty spots
left in your wake.