“As I walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to my freedom, I knew if I didn’t leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I’d still be in prison,” – Nelson Mandela, proof that the final form of love is forgiveness.
It is rare that one soul can impact all of ours – and make us more patient, more powerful and more human. Mandela was such a soul. And he will never leave us.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Sunday Night Poetry
I was never a bishop, but the world's
A dream we die in. I breathe
Into a blue robe, take day lilies
From a jar out of her room
To a pail in the yard. Who would
Believe the grass growing so quickly
Between the bricks, the purslane
Spreading like rash over the patio.
We're done with her dresses, hangers
And plastic bags, the trunk of yarn.
Stepping over collapsed boxes of shoes,
I carry the last collection of holy cards
To the yard and burn the saints
With matches, that from these may grow
In full sight of her in pure stone,
The other life, continuing long.