The house was full of living then

And there was need to view

the quiet contours of the hills,

heaven’s vast expanse of blue.

This old house is empty now, 

with mostly only me,

the trees are crowding up the hill

as if for company.

I would not have them back for good—

my birds have learned to fly—

but I find lovely comfort when

a wild bird nests close by.  

 

Taken by permission and adapted from “Clouds are the Dust of His Feet,” by Ruth Bell Graham. ©1992, The Ruth Bell Graham Literary Trust.