“the truth is
my hope is mangled.
it limps and creaks
at night.
you speak of hope like a
white bird soaring.
it’s okay that mine
is the battered exhale,
a bench with splintered wood.”
— Cole Arthur Riley
The invitation:
to touch a part
of their bodies
where the divine
has met them
over the weekend.
Hand to heart
I watch them rise.
Eyes closed,
one by one
like a potent wave.
The spirit swells like that.
They can’t see
one another,
but I see them.
Every movement
a note in perfect harmony.
They came for respite,
for reprieve and
for replenishment.
To be nourished by
the land and by
one another.
To do justice, to love
mercy, to walk humbly
isolates and weathers
the soul like the steady
drip…
drip…
drip…
of water on rock.
Before me sit
a sea of
Teachers
Social workers
Hospital chaplains
Entrepreneurs
Mixologists
Pastors
Government officials
Real estate developers
Eco conservationists
Writers
Parents
Each with hands to heart,
touched the same,
crashing into
one another.
