Perhaps you could say that in Rome, Paul,where the olive trees of the Seven Hillsstrung their pearls of rain against the sky.And yes, as I hike Glacier Parkwith a well-stocked pack, I can welcomeGod's ambassadors of fireweed and paintbrush,the psalmic rhythm of lake hitting shore.But as the refugee trudgesfrom Mogadishu to Dabaab, is she to catcha glimpse of antelope bone in the thicketand intuit the sufferings of the Son of Man?She wears her own nails and crown.An Eden of lizards surges at her heels,but she wonders at nothingbut the sore-studded daughter she left to dieon the road, and now, the babystrapped to her back: six poundsat one year old. He no longer criesbut flutters small breaths on her necklike the golden wings of mothsshe counts with worshipful attention.
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