I am but paper gently crumpled,
Slowly growing damp in the morning mist.
Into the slightest breeze I soon tumble,
Wandering trash left casually dismissed,
Tightening with each wind into a fist.
Unpredictable and Unstoppable,
My journey fumbles unclear and un-kissed…
‘Til quickened by hope, I became able,
To someday lay flat upon a table.
My creases were deep and edges tattered,
Deformed, dirty,… incomprehensible,
Difficult to read of me what mattered….
Not by me – but He who sits at the table,
Can now make flat, useful, and legible.
Hope is the calm wind that carries me through,
To lay pressed flat upon the table by Hands that renew.
By Chris Clody 10/12/2013