Letter to the Editor
Since I was just a twinkle in Your eye,
have you been writing down the poem which is me.
But now I get the feeling that
the very phrase,
the one initiating growth,
that crystal-forming seed,
Has got to go.
How hard that is!
I feel the wrench, I sense the cuts dig deep.
Yet I concur, surrender to your pen,
submit to cut and paste,
else would I stay half formed.
And well I know that once that phrase has gone,
o bitter sweet,
then in its place there can be finer words,
more apt, with room to grow.
Dear Author, Finisher of my soul, don't ever stop,
but keep on honing, changing, pruning,
till my life's a melody, a song, a picture of your love.
Each day, each hour, each minute, you keep shaping me.
Like all your other children, I am always on your mind.
All things are in your thesaurus,
and suddenly you'll find
another way to improve your song -
By bringing in a vibrant thread of colour,
or a hint of shadow to enhance your Light.
My ragged winter garden
draws out praise and gratitude from this too-stony heart;
Words in a book expose my greed and selfishness -
Oh how you long for me to end with them!
Delete them now, my King, release me from their hold
and write your song, my life,
our joint endeavour; fill your page, and
Stop at nothing till my life reflects your own.