On many an idle day, the
stone turns red as
light turns to stone, as
wheat turns to chaff as it turns to stone, and then you remember
to break bread, speak sun, cry prayer, shed
tear to make whole the stone, the full, the
red, the idle day is idle no more.
On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is never lost, my lord. Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands.
Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.