(With my deepest and most sincere apologies to Robert Frost)
Whose Lent this is I think I know.
His house is in the Heaven's though;
He will not mind me stopping here
To watch this Lent begin to grow.
My little brain must think it queer
To stop without a purpose near
setting aside chores I must partake
His presence coming ever near.
I give my weary head a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of restless thoughts and deep heartache.
This Lent is calling, dark and deep.
But I am afraid of the steep,
pathway upward that I seek,
And miles to go before I sleep.