I can not carry the tribulations,
the birth and dying of one street.
How could I therefore
listen to the burdens of a village,
a town,
the murmuring of confessions,
the confinement of a jailer,
the brittle laughter of saloons,
administering medicine to the ill?
Share the hope and helplessness
of the teacher.
Yet we presume
God has time for each
and every one of us.
Doesn’t tire.
Doesn’t weep.
Must weigh in the balance
every moment of our lives,
and hold in the heart
how much light is left
after the darkness.
And I have come
to the entrance of an answer.
The arch of a truth.
How the world was made
to allow the work of the Creator.
The substance that is always
the something it possesses,
giving back in equal proportion
to what is taken.
Restores what has fallen,
and redeems every tear
with the addition of joy
for good measure.
God said, I am nothing but this,
I will be nothing but this,
and everything I’ve created
will be made, shaped, polished
and rounded by this.
The language of everything
taken together.
In the beginning and forever,
was the word,
I am the word,
and the word is love!