One night, when he was three, Levi asked as I was putting him to bed, “Where does the shadows go?” The question tickled my imagination and, in the morning, my answer had settled into a poem.
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 smoothly
through my hands, I gather night’s shadows,
tucking 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,
smoothing 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.
Looking for a simple, sweet Christmas gift for a reader or pastor you love? Check out my poetry collection, Between Heaven and Earth, available on amazon (signed copies available locally for delivery as well).
Not sure? Read what poet and reviewer Laura Brown had to say:
The poems in her new book, …are made of common work; building fires in the stove every cold morning; caring for children with nosebleeds and other late-night needs; stripping death from last year’s flowerbeds. They are made of memories of a grandmother who took her to church, fed the chickadees and kept a shotgun by the door to discourage the bluejays. They are made of joy and sadness, grief and hope, and thinking in the dark. Mostly, they’re made of watching, waiting, and. listening.