by Elizabeth Southwood
Today her phone rang twice:
Two friends she’s missed
called to chat a catch-up while.
Each asked if she was writing still.
“Not much,” she said, “Since he was diagnosed,
I seem to have nothing to say.
“ What I do instead is pray.
“He’s been bleeding thirteen months,
but he’s feeling good.”
Hanging up, she sat down to write,
her writer still inside
until she tried:
“Lord, let his tests be good,
and let his thorns be loose.”