Last night, in a charming bid to avoid bedtime, one of my three-year-olds asked me, “Where does shadows go?”  I stood in the dark doorway explaining about darkness and light until they seemed satisfied.  Then, when the other boy woke at 3 am in a soaked bed, my little imp asked me to tell him again, in a less charming bid to avoid sleep, where the shadows go.  That time I told him to go to sleep, we’d talk about it in the morning.  But when I got back to bed, the question tickled my imagination and in the morning this poem was found in the question’s fading shadow.  Enjoy! 

Now faith is . . . the conviction of things not seen. (Hebrews 11:1)

“Tell me
again, Mommy, where does the shadows go?”

By morning’s
light, my love, as dawn creeps

over the
mountain, I roll them up tight, every shape

that echos
an object.  Soft like velvet, slipping

through my
hands, I gather the night’s shadows,

them into the far corners of your closet

and behind
the attic door.  All day long they wait, 

deepening, exuding the smell of
the rich,

dark earth,
of damp caves and mushroom spores. 

When evening descends and you’re busy with dessert,

I roam the
house, stretching shadows out again,

them flat across ceiling or floor,

these soft
shapes of remembrance, the dark reminders

that what
you cannot see does not cease to exist

when the
lights go out.  Shadows lengthen, like faith,

as darkness descends, reminders of things unseen,

until morning’s light reveals what was always present.   

Linking up with Unforced Rhythms of Grace and Playdates with God.

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