The niche is where I wait and dream in the dusky light,
A place of safety where my visions are free to take to flight.

A holy place where enemies are never allowed to be,
A place of honor and truth that ever flows in me.

I can come when I want although I forget at times,
Until I am drawn back by the rivers of running rhymes.

So softly they call at first, seductively they sing the song,
With the lure of a piper’s tune I am drawn along.

Blanketed in soothing words that compliment the call
Of the artist hand that touched me back by heaven’s wall.

“Called you to be a piper, called you to play the tune,
Called you to be my poet, will you answer soon?

A baby and his Father alone as the morning’s sun arose,
I held you in my arms, you had more beauty than the rose.

Prose and poetry were deposited, more than an ample supply,
Enough for an eternity or two, enough to paint the sky.”

He tells me things like that when I listen by the well,
He fills me up with loving until I wonder if I’ll swell.

The grace flows from His heart as do peace and love,
While in the heavens the angelic beings circle close above.

The gentle breeze from their wings lights a smile on my face,
With the glory they are stirring up on the wings of grace.

I may be listening by the well or in the niche writing of my Father’s love,
Perhaps a poem or two of Him while angelic wings beat on above.

Copyright © 1998 by Pat Worrell

 

Back to Visiting Authors List