A quarter-moon hangs
high in the midst of a southern sky,
its light distinct above the low slate
of this pre-dawn darkness.

Stretches of snow
still show the shape of drifts
from the storm that came
just less than a week ago.

My fingers know the form
of the chain that holds the gate
shut against the wandering of horses.
More by feel than sight,
I unlatch the steel.

Shaking feed into the hanging bucket,
I remember the morning meeting
on the Lord’s Day
and the way five men stood together,
humbling themselves
before God and the people,

asking Him for a fresh filling
for the shepherds and the sheep,
a pouring out of the Presence
upon them
whose lifting demands
a wonderful yielding,
a power dependent
upon the emptying of self.

Shuffling through sand and manure,
I walk pure among the stars.

H. Arnett
2/4/13