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Poem

She still and always will out source my travels,
remains in my retina - a tender photograph.
She-cloud, fuzzy and dark. I perceived her
on her godforsaken corner - was she on drugs?

Was she a nightwalker, runaway, bruised
and abused by stranger things? Did she call
out to God as I walked by; because I heard her.
I prayed for her diurnally yet I never met her.

She’s the lady of New England. She is void
of clam chowder and blueberry pie. There
is no laughter only dried tears in her eyes.
I have to believe my prayers matter. They

are just a splatter in the scheme of things.
Likewise the tears of a sister (in the Lord)
kidnapped, sold into marriage by soulless 
demonic forces. Baby irises taunted, on display

as a child bride to the devil. Where is she now?
That was many years ago. God’s eye weaved
into a colorful pattern between children’s fingers,
so hopeful, filled with vigor, imagination and love;
and hate from those desperate to bruise.

It would be better
for him to have a millstone
hung around his neck and
to be thrown into the sea
than to cause one of these
little ones to stumble*

So I walk with joy and a heavy heart,
nothing I could do. But perhaps prayer
is bigger than Boston, Maine, Afghanistan,
my outstretched heart. Now and forever,

God embraces his little ones in the curve
of his pierced palms. With the movement
of our outstretched feet, our mouths
murmur something momentous.

8/29/2021 

*Luke 17:2

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