“Shrouded in zero,” I found in my notes,
Why I wrote what I wrote.
“The middle of O,” as in after N,
Was also there, written in pen.
I’d written the words on litter not page,
Detail was lacking,
My thoughts hard to gauge.
With scrap of paper held in my hand,
I wandered the halls,
What was the plan?
On closer inspection
I found more jotting,
The meaning of which,
my mind was blotting.
Then in a flash my memory cleared,
A cold winter day,
From the past appeared.
No temperature read
on the dial that morn,
The landscape crackled, frozen, forlorn.
I stood at my window and thanked God above,
That though cold circled me,
I was warm, in a glove.
Even though it was nil, out in the air,
A warm hedge of heat surrounded my chair.
Peace I felt inside and out,
His grace I felt without any doubt.
Shrouded in zero, in the middle of O,
my devotion to Him I must show.