When I draw up my life
in from the clouded sea,
like wrinkled burlap that lay
on the threshing floor
in the winter,

I will wring it out,
tying it up at one end
so that it holds the brass
baubles with my marks
on them.

And God, that hoary
head that rises from the
stones, will strap it to
His belt loop, holding
me by the shoulders
in the warm moon
of eternal summer.