What If

What if

These tiny green leaves
Waiting at my feet
Are not the weeds I’ve
Been taught to disdain,
Meant to be hacked with
My implements of
Ritual and sermon,
Doused with piety
And holy water,
Starved with fasting and
Negotiation,
Suffocated with
The weed-block of that
Endless noise
I call prayer.

What if

These tiny green leaves
Are simply life forms
I don’t recognize
Yet as beautiful,
With all my labels,
Depictions written
By witnesses who
Only remember
A garden defiled,
Who can’t see lion
And lamb lying down
In stillness beside
Thorn and rose blooming
Together
In beauty.

What if

I lay down
Both sword and plowshare,
And kneeling, let my
Fingers slowly touch
The strange edges
Of my own
Tiny green leaves.