40 Days
Forty days, only
We offer up
In smallest token
Of what was done for us.
Forty days, lonely
He walked the desert
Of that land
To save us
From ourselves and
What the earth
Holds out
To tempt and offer–
Empty promises
It cannot keep.
Forty days, merely
We give it back
In miserly ways–
A piece of chocolate
Or a dollar coin
A thoughtless prayer
Most likely drifting
Up in space
Or somewhere
For ourselves
And our own needs.
Did he ever once
Think of himself
When Satan said
He’d show him
What it meant
To be the King?
What then, is it
For us
To give Him
Some small gift
Of Forty Days
In recompense?
Kathleen Mortensen©2009
