last night, and found upon my way
a branch, as an elderly hand in sway,
its shadow on the wall made scars.
Painted limb appeared more real
than the mesh of winter twigs
twining about in grey-green sprigs;
the shade-tree’s lines dark enough to feel.
I pondered how I would like to be
a clear shadow on history’s wall,
though I could only grapple with the Fall,
redemption shown in depths of two, not three.
All we are is but flickering shade—
yet in this season of Bright Sadness,
even shadows reflect in crisp blackness,
the glory of the King, fresh made.