A book, or maybe two, a broken watch;
Some notes and a couple of scars for souvenirs;
Looking on my shelves, so little sign -
The friends of those days scattered with the years;
Yet my soul, which is the burden here
Of all the tale that lies before my hand,
Holds herself in awe of inner forms;
Rebirth of memory makes her understand.
Lady, Mother, Mistress of my life,
I feel your hand so sweetly on my brow
You know the joyful weight I've born so long
Do you give me leave to share it now?
Your hand stretched out so numbers all my years
That everywhere I turn, if I can wait
Your Spouse has commandeered my peace of mind
He bid me write, and what is worse, of Him
Having glorified His presence in my past
And raised my eyes from where they once were blind
He now requests , or so my soul suspects
Some accounting of His time with me
- A glorious but complicated task
I need your help to set the process free.
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