Friday, November 29, 2019

Weeds grow. The wind blows debris across my doorstep. Dust settles on surfaces.

Lord, even through a neglected space, I glide unspotted in your arms.

Let not my eye light on specks of mud, Lord, for you have taken me by my right hand.

Up the path goes, to vistas and bracing wind, where I will flourish.

(Letter #1,784)