I have faith in the power of words.
They are tiny, and insignificant,
and when you use them so powerfully
to evoke the disaster of your life,
complete with sights and smells worthy
of a trigger warning,
and when you tell me
you do not have faith in the power of words,
I see a glass vase dropping to a concrete floor, shattering,
in a shadowed room.
I glimpse, for a moment, your lack of faith.
But then I see a man with shadowed face,
one who heard the shatter,
and without a broom or even even a dustpan
gets down on his hands and knees
wearing only a towel
picking up the pieces,
The sun goes down,
and the glass lies dead.
Still, he keeps working,
working all night,
and I see blood flowing from his fingers,
dark and dripping
and still he picks up the pieces,
I can barely keep my eyes open–
maybe I don’t
but suddenly a shout rouses me.
My eyes burst open
to the room filling with
rose gold light,
imparting rose-gold to the glass
stained with blood,
and his shout is a word,
so golden with love
that a blood-red rose blooms
in my heart, thorns and all:
I do not understand it,
but he has a new vase in his hand,
the same one,
but crackling with lightning.
And the man smiles,
his eyes filling with the joy
of making the universe
and calling it good.
I have faith in that Word,
that calls me rose-gold.
Therefore, though they made him bleed,
yours, and mine,