I wrote this poem this past December and then let it sit for a good long while.  Now it seems to me that it has something to do with Lent and Jesus’ invitation to follow him into the desert for these forty days.  When I wrote it, I was thinking of the root cellar in the basement of my Grandma’s house.  It was a fascinating space to me as a child, full of spider webs and canned goods.


There is a room full of darkness

within each of us.

Descend the stairs,

round the corner,

and descend the stairs again.

There stands the door,

worn and wooden,

the room behind it

like a small cell

cut into the cool, earthy

darkness of the soul.

The door is held shut

by a thin hook and eye latch.

What lies behind it,

we dare not guess –

deep secrets wrapped in fear

huddled in darker corners yet?


But maybe, also, there exists

preserved in the dank shadows,

the fruits of our lives,

treasures untold,

the deep, cool roots

from which we and the world might drink,

were we ever to dare to

reach out our shaking hand

and open the door. 

This post is linked with Playdates With God and Hear It On Sunday, Use It On Monday.

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