What if These tiny green leavesWaiting at my feetAre not the weeds I’veBeen taught to disdain,Meant to be hacked withMy implements ofRitual and sermon,Doused with pietyAnd holy water,Starved with fasting andNegotiation,Suffocated withThe weed-block of thatEndless noiseI call prayer. What if These tiny green leavesAre simply life formsI don’t recognizeYet as beautiful,With all my labels,Depictions writtenBy witnesses whoOnly rememberA garden defiled,Who can’t see lionAnd lamb lying downIn stillness besideThorn and rose bloomingTogetherIn beauty. What if I lay down Both sword and plowshare, And kneeling, let my Fingers slowly touchThe strange edges Of my own…