Just a poem for this week…

It’s been a rager of a week in my world. Several women in my life have experienced tragedy. A systemic and personal tragedy that’s been eating away at our collective good has flooded the streets of Ferguson. Until I have the time to integrate all that tragedy into ideas and understanding, I leave you simply with a poem, a grateful poem.

His Winter Crop

by Hafiz

I have 

Seen you heal

A hundred deep wounds with one glance

From Your spectacular eyes. 

While your hands, beneath the table, 

Pour large bags of salt into the heart-gashes

Of Your most loyal servants. 

Dear World, I can offer

An intelligent explanation 

For our suffering. 

But I really hope it makes sense

To no one here, 

And come morning, 

You are again at God’s door

With ax and pickets, 

Eloquent petitions and complaints. 

Think of suffering as being washed. 

That is to say, 

Hafiz, you are often completely soaked 

And dripping. 

The only advantage I can see in this

Is the Friend’s long range plan

Is that when the Beloved bursts 

Into flames

The whole world with not turn into 

A bright oil wick all at once, 

Then divine ash, 

And ruin his, 

Winter

Crop.