Every preacher stands. . .

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,



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.