Inducing all these little proofs,
Scattered constellations self-imposing,
On my mind. Powerfully aloof,
Winks into light at every closing,
Of my eyes. Drawing up a varied booth,

Projecting on its walls the myriads:
Dinner drinks and friendship webs,
Network maps and river beds,
All tumbled out and hung to dry,
'Till underlying threads lay flat.

I hear a dulcet hum not my own,
But mechanical, embracing the air,
And wobbling like a beating heart,
That draws me close and beacons me to dearest sleep.

Gravity tugs on my core,
A thick lifeline,
A tether leaving me sore,
But all the more safe and secure.

Grounded and humble,
It makes me bow down low,
Refining my temperament,
And training my muscles under my own load,
And then a little more,
And then a little more.

They call it stewardship.
It's pretty cool.

Help me to be humble and to steward well all that you give me, Lord.