When the pain comes in from those who dislike you,
Or what you have done,
Or seems you had done;
The fork in the road rushes up.
To vilify and engage in debate,
Shredding their argument,
And then their clothes;
Until they are left naked, and your work is done.
Or listen and pray,
Perhaps then, we might hear what is behind the words,
The critiques, the noise,
And learn what is in their heart.
Which may tell us what is in ours.
Into the darkness,
As the evening draws near,
Smothering the day with her extinguished light,
Calling us to rest.
Or reflect on the day past,
And a sleepless night ahead.
In the olive grove, just before sundown,
A path is laid clear, from pickers and carts of old;
Of where I must go when the darkness comes,
To find those who are missing.
And need to return home.
She is lovely,
The child still there in the inquisitive, loving nature,
Which never wanes,
Despite the difficulties.
Trust and love preclude her footsteps,
Regardless of the brokenness of path,
Or steepness of terrain.
She always fetches the water.
With a smile which breaks hearts open.
The image is now fixed,
Emblazoned, embedded, irreversible.
Cannot be undone;
As a love encounter for which there is no eraser,
Only a fountain which continues to spill its wealth.
For we cannot contain love,
Only transmit it.
Waiting, without patience, rather with love,
The baby knows so much more than us all.
Where the heart leads the head,
And expressions of disguise are unknown.
And a gaze contains all.