My Bedroom

I sleep under a quilt
Hand stitched by my grandmother
Over eighty years ago,
The work of her hands still blessing me,
Keeping me warm at night,
Protecting me now that I sleep alone,
Though she’s been gone some fifty years.
She’s still here with me.
 
The ceiling and walls of the room
Are rough planks of yellow oak,
So at times I sleep in a barn.
Silver cross made by my father
Hangs on the wall.
A Tibetan singing bowl
Sits on top of a chest, vibrates
As I pray at day or night.
 
A shepherd’s crook from Scottish highlands,
Collection of ten Chinese bi-jade discs,
Some thousands of years old….
Colonial powder horn without musket,
Large Celtic cross from Isle of Iona
Surround island of my bed—
Guardians of my dreams…
Companion objects with whom I keep
Quiet company—
Imbue a particular energy,
Personality, remind me
That I am never really alone.
 
There is an occasional spider
In the bathroom and a moth
That visits on summer nights.
Mosquitoes, I pray, stay away.
A clock, a stack of books,
St. Francis’ prayer and a candle
Next to the bedside lamp.
 
Sometimes at night I read
By candlelight, which is
A risk to the moth
But a comfort to me.
And called or uncalled,
God is always here,
Simple, invisible, near.

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One thought on “My Bedroom

  1. Alone and not lonely is the ultimate challenge of every life that seeks inner meaning and purpose.
    Super poem, Fred….

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