A SMALL WOODEN CROSS
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.
