“Some sat in darkness, in utter darkness, prisoners suffering in iron chains…”
Ps. 107
A pen here, a notebook there
A color, a texture, a shade, a hue
What qualities in our things
Our contrivances and devices
Our gadgets and tools
That we should ever miss them
Serves the created
And not the Creator
The little things of my little world,
Created in my image for my pleasure.
In the created things – inanimate things
Are only qualities – they do not demand nor judge
They just are for the moment
In my little prison cell
Which I had not noticed
Built of my little things
Until the bars of these little things
Pressed against me, cold and unfeeling.
Day and night,
These little things
Are all that remain.
Last Things 