Man is without excuse
Perhaps you could say that in Rome, Paul,
where the olive trees of the Seven Hills
strung their pearls of rain against the sky.
And yes, as I hike Glacier Park
with a well-stocked pack, I can welcome
God's ambassadors of fireweed and paintbrush,
the psalmic rhythm of lake hitting shore.
But as the refugee trudges
from Mogadishu to Dabaab, is she to catch
a glimpse of antelope bone in the thicket
and 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 nothing
but the sore-studded daughter she left to die
on the road, and now, the baby
strapped to her back: six pounds
at one year old. He no longer cries
but flutters small breaths on her neck
like the golden wings of moths
she counts with worshipful attention.