Stones in the Hand of the Master

This sadness does not know how
to mourn for you;
possibilities still exist
but hide themselves
in daytime language,
no more of sense
than the speaking of
the recurrent dream.
A pattern remains to be seen
in the dusk, gradations of autumn light
embroidering themselves
on the clouds covering these eyes.
Hiding produces little,
but your footsteps yet pierce
the canvas of this life’s turning—
heavy, measured footsteps,
as if walking must be ruled
by Pythagorean theorem.
But there is no formula
for this …
too many variables tumble over one another,
all semi-precious stones.
But the edges do not smooth on their own.

The Polisher takes out jewels
one by one and grinds them,
chips an edge or two,
shines them with a soft cloth.
Held up to the starlight,
the stones gleam a tribute
to the Master’s skill and dedicated love.

This life is His gem,
polished every day…
a simple rock,
striated with deposits.
In His hand, this rock rests,
shinier day by day.
With the others
it is part of a treasure trove,
that tribute to the Master.

How beautiful you would be
in His hand,
a gem of rare beauty,
a great tribute to the Creator
who is Master of all.
But your heart remains
rough-hewn stone,
fortress against His entry.
May He knock upon the gate.
May He enter, crowned in glory.
May stone grown warm under His hand.

{written in the late 1990s}

© 2006 ElenaMarie