H’Shem has never trapped my tears in angel bottles
or bedewed my bed with bread at dawn
or shepherd-walked me past His glassy ponds
and yet where Bethlehem breeds barley
I grow grey, and sing my vows.
I vow to help. To ease your years
and wash your baby’s ears. Around your flocks
I’ll sleep and someday sleep perpetually
where stones are stacked on stones
to mark old sites where stories named your fields.
I vow my promises are stones.
What tales bereft of promises deserve the name of story?
TimothyOne 