The woods are gray — a drear, tangled hash

Like an old mouse nest, flimsy, dry —

Tinder turning to ash.

Such am I.

Brittle branches lack loveliness to grow,

Cause no glad laughter, no tears shed,

Rattle in each blow.

Fall, near dead.

Yet when the sudden sunset show

With burning glory lifts each head,

The branches gaze

And, captured in the splendor, glow.

By the Son’s light lit, lifted, led,

So we, too, blaze.

Kayla Cannon