Every preacher stands. . .
naked before blank pages
on Monday morning,
white spaces,
empty places, looking
for a word with wings
to stir, to convict, to comfort, to inspire;
a fig leaf to cover,
a sign to point a way,
for Sunday is drawing near,
again.
The naked page, awaiting
not the generous spoils owed to a victor,
but the gifts freely given
by a bestowed muse
in the name
of grace or
some other name
beyond the white
pages of reason.
