When I think of this blank paper,
I think of only of what will be written later,
and I am filled with serene surprise.
This paper, though blank, is full in my eyes.
There is so much to space to fill,
and by God’s grace, this white blank will
be consumed with Christmas expectation,
and one day be black and red, lying in prostration
before my little pen and my ready fingers.
And I will be a Shepherd like Israel’s singer.
And I will be the Psalmist, and I will sin confess,
and then praise, and my God bless –
because isn’t confession another praise?
And isn’t praise another confession: a lay
to the Almighty who rejoices in grapes, love,
and bread as if sacramentally endued from above
with wondrous meaning because they flow
from the hand of one Who is, Who was, Who knows?
I write on this page with purple grape delight
because in my heart there is fruit of the vine;
my words, black in color, shall rise up to fight
because He who makes well will make a new wine.