I have not swept the stable—
the whole place reeks of shit—
instead, I filled the table;
will you not come and sit?
I haven't mucked the stalls out,
but have a room prepared.
Will you not lay your cross down
and sit beside me there?
And see: A fire I kindled;
come rest beside the hearth—
You go where all's untended
and sit there in the dark.
Not where the light is glowing,
not where the wine runs red,
but where the ox is lowing:
It's there you lay your head.
What I'd cast off, you've chosen,
the filth that I would hide.
You throw the doors wide open
and nestle down inside.
Then like an infant wailing,
you call me through the night
there, where your love unfailing
is burning clear and bright.
Kate Bluett 