Morning sun slants through limbs and leaves leaving streaks of light and patches of shadow
on the autumn grass of my youngest son’s backyard.
Five camping chairs sit around a ring of stone
and pile of ashes where last night
I joined Jeremiah and one of his brothers
and a grandson born of their oldest brother
sat beside a fire built of branches
and a few pieces of leftover lumber.
While the kids slumbered in warm beds,
we sat outside in cool air,
sharing late into the night
stories and memories brought to light
by dancing flames and glowing coals.
If we stood and turned our eyes
away from the fire,
we could see a fainter, higher light,
speckled in the night
through the high branches of the big pine tree
and beyond the upward limbs of a massive oak.
It is his Ben’s second night here
after moving back to Murray
from too many years in Houston.
It is obvious in their faces and voices
the pleasure that they look forward to sharing here living near each other once again.
I hope that they will someday know
the deep delight that a Father takes
in seeing the plain love
of his own begotten for one another
so clearly shared
and showing in their eyes and on their faces
in the glow of a late night fire
stoked by seasoned oak and held close
in night’s revealing light.