Turns toward home, toward the wound or bruise.
It's not made to isolate the broken bone, the ache,
To chastise and dishonor its own weakness.
So may it be with us, our humanity, one in every way.
When they jam the wire fences, when they weep at the wall,
We are made to weep too, and then to wonder why,
And then to honor their flight as our own.
Perhaps the endgame isn't a game at all,
And maybe the honest spirit doesn't outwit death.
I wonder tonight if the gift isn't measured in years,
Or vacations to Italy and Rio, but in hospitality.
That is, to make of my life a doorway.
DGJ
Christmastide, 2022
Santa Cruz
