The Least

Beautiful the ugliness of scented sweat. Resists the idea to flee. The least needs the soldier’s help. The bleed of his forehead - whether this soul is of tares or weeds. This dreadful beast is a Samaritan’s guest. He has no wallet, no name, one’s home. A medicinal book speaks, “Give him rest.” Wash him, pull up clean sheets to his chin. The saint cannot measure the light of his eyes. They are sweltered in darkness under lids. The beauty sleep might do him good. Samaritan, you can’t take a peek - God forbids. Chances are this hoary man’ll not be thankful. Chances are he’d rather be dead…is he? You’ve taken a chance…might he be wrathful? Still, a human being presented himself - the least. Beautiful the rising of the sun, its presentation of bittersweet orange and red, hugely sacrificing. In nettle, your knees - you know who you long to be. No matter the cost, the calling of heaven’s enticing.