Miserly with my days, I scrooge away
minutes, hoarding time the way
others hoard wealth, as though
each moment to myself were
a treasure hordes might steal.
Bethlehem’s abundance shames me.
In poverty, in absence of room,
heaven brims wide with nothing to hide.
The excess of my garden laughs away
the miser in me. Come play, it chuckles.
Delight.
The Consolations of Writing 