Poem January 11, 1988 Issue

Sarah's poem

(Help when I needed it, from a long-ago friend)

Caroline S. Garrett

Hello, morning child!
Why, here we are again—
I see you are waiting for the Messiah ...
He's going to come; that's what you've been thinking,
Oh yes!
But listen to this, little one.
He's right here, and now
it's up to me and you ...
What's that you say? You wish you could see him
standing here in front of us so you could touch him?
To touch your Saviour, mercy!

That reminds me of those days when we watched the morning sun,
all streaks across your bedroom wall.
You couldn't really touch it, that morning sun ...
But you could see and feel it:
warm like cotton, soft and bright, such a friendly place,
with those shadows dancing all around.
How we do enjoy it, yes, how we do!
But touch it? Catch it?
Never, child, it doesn't work that way.

Now let me tell you:
You stand here in this soft sun of yours,
and look out at those branches:
Those branches cross the sky like cracks in ice,
but it doesn't make you sad, because you know it won't last ...
It's just winter and the leaves are sleeping.
Even the bare branches with that dark bark
against ominous skies don't scare us.