I wonder whose desk that was,
Now discarded southward, pushed
Years ago over the edge beyond
The broken cement foundation pile
Among rotting sheets of plywood
And construction projects abandoned.
Morning glory and blackberry vines
Race to embrace the fallen furniture,
Creeping quietly into drawers to peek
Into rain-soaked files spilling out,
Half-buried in among the weeds.
I wonder when she sat at this desk,
Whether she ever envisioned mere
Mortality of poorly built pressboard
Mahogany veneered cabinetry now
Forsaken. What letters, verses, memories,
Prayers, laments and loves came pouring
Forth from her fountain pen to page?
What forbidden love, secretly indulged,
Hidden desires or dreams never realized,
Confessed here upon this sacred place,
Now neglected, decaying, abandoned.
I wonder if skeletal remains of
Desks and daughters could converse
What stories they would tell,
What psalms they would chant,
What confessions they would hear,
What dreams they would dream?
The monastic cemetery rests within,
View, fewer than fifty yards away
Cloistered among evergreen trees
Gravestones marching across the grass
In well-ordered simplicity and silence.
If she could arise at midnight and
Walk those few fifty steps westward
To this site, this rejected heap,
And see again this broken form that
Once was her desk, those long years
Of psalms and service, prayers and
Redirected passions, now melted away
As morning mist that once hung heavy
Among gnarled apple trees in the orchard.
I wonder what these two would say
And how they may greet and bow
Before the Christ and each other
With enduring modesty and grace. 

~written by David Robinson