NOVEMBER SUPPLICATION

I step out

into the raucous caws

from the crows in the neighborhood,

piercing over the hum of the furnace flue

from my home, from Sharon’s home,

from our homes.

There is a skin of ice over 

the rusty wheelbarrow water,

and frost spawns in my exhalations

as I walk the garbage out, 

returning to lift the leashes 

from the key hooks by the kitchen door.

Invariably,

I am flanked by Gretta and Zuko,

two dachshund disciples, straining leads, 

sniffing through rustled leaves,

purposeful,

following warm scents 

against the brittle bite of this November morning.

And invariably,

my conversations with my Lord

fall back on chosen brokenness,

my living indiscretions, His pained waiting grace,

the clarity of Him lifting me to my humility,

purposeful,

within the brittle bite of this November morning.