Another Poor Man’s Hand

To sit in the dry stream bed of yourself
when life starts to rain like spring-fed fire
sending snow melt and showers from
the mountain’s dark low-lying cloud,
to stand like a craggy earth-clinging oak
after all other mourners have filed past
leaving you to deal with dead day places
only you can see as clods of yesterday
spill into the closing grave of now,
to lie on a cold hardwood floor
when the closest neighbor is you
crying to the calling night wind
with one last hope for hearing echoes
from a song that sings itself of living love,
living, not dying, grace-grown and given,
brooding over the bones of your broken body –
is to be the beggar by the pool who never knew
this world contained the only balm
with power to make him whole
until that day, that word, that blessed touch
of another poor man’s hand.

2016-03-07 06.00.30

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