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Gary Little

Honorable Mention: 2010 Novice Christian Poetry Contest $100

About this Christian Poet:
Gary lives in Binghamton, New York, with his wife Suzanne. They have been married (to each other) for 36 years. Gary and Suzanne have one son; three son in-laws (all in active military duty); four daughters; one daughter in-laws; five grandchildren, and, at the time of this writing, one more on the way.

About this Poem:
This poem was inspired when on a cool September morning in upstate NY I stepped outside a building after a session at a men's retreat. I stood on a knoll that looked across and down on a open meadow bordered on all sides by trees of various kinds. I wasn't aware of any sounds other than the quiet rustling of leaves in the tree tops, each type and kind of leaf seemed to be making its own distinct sound as the wind gently passed by. The grasses in the field were about knee high and mist hung lightly in the air. Across the field, stretching from the trees on the right to those on the left, was a path that though not well worn was none the less evident. The men's retreat was providing a time to pull away from the busyness of life, a time I badly needed, but, in the moment when I looked across this field and heard the quiet stirring sound the wind caused in the trees, I suddenly felt as though GOD was calling me to come away even further. The scene left me with a confirmed faith in a GOD who waits, sometime just beyond our view, calling to all who will come away to hear His invitation, often as quiet as a gentle stirring in the tops of the trees, out at the edges of fields.  

The Intercessor

He waits on the edges of fields,
The hearts and thoughts of men;
From where He whispers and lingers,
Listening for those who will hear.

Quiet and hidden from eyes,
But to seers He comes into view.
First a slight rustling
In the tops of the saplings,
Out at the edges of fields.

Come away from the din and commotion,
Away from the seat of self-will.
Out to the edges where so few will venture,
From the fakes and facades at the center.

But no path through the grasses is beaten,
No dirt is laid bare from a way traveled so.
For the stuff and the dreams and the chase at the center
Keeps men from true peace
At the edges of fields.

"Come unto Me…" is the voice that is wooing,
A call that to most is but rustling of leaves.
But the wind is the Spirit,
And the saplings line the borders,
Where He waits at the edges of fields.

Copyright ©2010 by Gary Little