Memory of a Summer Day
A sense of home can be of warmth,
But also of Abandonment,
Of those of should have loved me,
But didn’t somehow, Or could not show it.
Perhaps they did, but all I remember is the broken windows,
The winter wind which blew through our lives,
Not in malice,
But a reflection of a poverty, I didn’t know.
From which, someone who truly cared, protected me.
So, I might only know love.
The mystery of love is steeped deeply in our humanity,
In the incarnation,
In the gift of life,
And how we are all made,
From a mysterious desire,
Drawing us to each other,
Connecting us with a sacred sexuality,
And a faucet of grace which cannot be turned off,
Because love prevails; yet remains a mystery.