Fragile Artwork

Two porous cakes of charcoal,
a putty eraser, a graphite lead—
white paper, soiled and torn,
a sturdy plyboard—
is all he has,
and all he needs.

The night is woven
from unfurled shadows—
blotches of white
on a stricken tree.
The house clings to a crumbling rock,
harbouring the half-torn lives it breeds.

Lord, I am the house.
I am the lead,
the frayed lives,
the stricken tree—
a fragile artwork of Your being.
Complete me. Complete me.