My Promised Land

It is quiet inside my house
My wife is out on an early errand
The heater makes a soft sound
And I can just hear a distant train.

The bare trees are silhouetted against the predawn sky
They have been perfectly still
But now stir a little from a gentle wind
The harsh winter is almost over
And I begin to think of the coming spring.

Spring too inside my heart?
Is the long season of cold and darkness drawing to an end?
I feel a hint of a sense of order and restraint
Of all things coming in their own time
Of hearing again the still voice of my soul.

It is my promised land.
Will I like Moses be only allowed to see it?
Or by some grace may I enter in?

Winter 1995
Shrewsbury, Massachusetts

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