Allah, I am a fragile path of artifacts:
a lead Buddha facing Mecca,
an iron cast Vishnu, four arms
reaching towards the Middle East,
a Christ, eyes closed. Steeped in deepness,
these are the figures of journeys.
They are more than décor.
They are trees lining a road as ambiguous
as history, silent guides sunk in soil.
How I love each, inviting
them to root themselves—which they have.
It is painful.
The ground is grass and tender.
Step lightly, oh Lord.
Leave no holes,
but leave me not alone.
copyright Dec. 31, 2013
Katherine M. Gotthardt