I drove over to the soda kiln this morning. It was dark and cold, yesterday clothes
pulled on over an old weary body, ragged army coat, thermos of coffee. This kiln roars and I hear it as soon as I
open my truck door. It is a wild thing
in the woods. I sit in an old soft bench
beside it to be kept warm for the next two hours. The Ancient Of Days, fire, night, roar, the
The Still Voice, and me. The stars
circle above. The earth spins toward our
star. Another day starts right—being
cleansed from all my unrighteousness.
No comments:
Post a Comment