A Small Wooden Cross… a poem



There is a small wooden cross,

That lays on my desk.

Striations of grains,

Within it, coexist.

Years in the making

By a stolid old tree.

Carved out with love,

And given to me.

It fits in my hand,

In various ways.

Smooth and solid,

Reflective in who it portrays.

A reminder to me,

No matter my fears.

My debts were paid,

Still, after all these years.

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