Somewhere on the misty edge of darkness,
night calls to fog and dew,
welcoming the new coming
that coats all that is close to earth.
Silver beads the forms of grass and leaf,
the frames of cars and carriers,
uncovered tools and unshedded tractors,
whatever has been left open to the air.
The cooling vapor
tailors all that is still,
wraps all that is calm,
soothing every unmoving form.
Each glistened surface will testify
in morning’s first light
to the quiet work that nourishes
the green and growing,
yet hastens the darkening change of iron and steel,
the scaling frames of old bridges
and the pocked and pitted bed
of an old black wheelbarrow
leaned against the edge of the shed.
Beneath their sheath of weathered gray,
the oak handles, rusted tray and groaning axle
still bear up to the work of each new day.
Though faith may sometimes seem to fray
and hope may stagger a bit pushing up from the pit,
whatever does not quit from life nor shrink from labor
will find itself made stronger,
more formed in the image of its Maker.