All Beings Have Purpose
All beings have purpose—
even the moth that beats itself bloody
against the porch light,
even the man who sleeps in his truck
with the windows cracked to breath fresh air.
Only the good shall know the good light,
but they know it the hard way—
through the bruise of loving,
through the weight of staying,
through the work of choosing mercy
when rage would be easier.
Anything evil knows only death and the dark,
the narrow rooms of itself,
the echo of its own footsteps,
the hunger that no meal ever fills.
Everyone deserves a loving family—
a place where their name is spoken
the way bread is broken,
where their body is not a burden,
where their tears are not an embarrassment,
where their fear is not laughed at.
Can you look in the mirror and not turn away,
not from the scar,
not from the soft place,
not from the child you still are,
standing there asking
to be held?
Can a tree shade the bush full of green leaves,
can a tree full of fruit bend low enough
to feed the ones who cannot climb?
Yes—if it remembers it was once a seed,
if it remembers the dark soil,
the waiting,
the thirst,
the long reach toward light.
All beings have purpose.
Some are meant to grow tall.
Some are meant to bear fruit.
Some are meant to teach us
how to survive the night
and still believe in morning.
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