In this land where I yearn for You,
dust comes to rest
more expeditiously, and to accrue
more substance than my weakening protest
It settles on the desk, and on the arms
of chairs: on walls
it dims the mirrors till our forms
are bleared. Sun flecked accrual
from shaken pillows. Coverlets
are burdensome with dust.
So the regrets
gather on mind’s crust,
thicker than cerements:
heavy for my shrunken thought to wear.
In this dry land, my father’s God, I yearn for You —
Someone to lift what settles here
instead of dew.
Your voice I listen to, tenderly
speaking – not the awful
thundering of old –
whisper of light
at day-close, while an hour’s gold
is spun on tasseled grain —
Your voice is life. It spoke
first day and night – it tells the breadth
of my divided meaning
in Your Sabbath.
What do You wait
to whisper when I’m told?
Listen to me. Only a small voice
stammering lost words,
unless the Wind which moves
the grain You pluck, my Lord of rest,
carries Your whispering of me
when I am dust.
© Isabel Chenot
Isabel Chenot has always known poetry as one of the most expressive forms of hope, and is grateful for opportunities to share that again.