on compassion

it takes time to turn grief-scorched earth 
soft, 
to see life signs return as 
compassion sprouting along 
shattered edges laid bare 

in kindness, 
my hurting heartland waits for me, 
hopeful and unhurried,
holding the ashes in its open hands 
expecting beauty at any moment 
to burst forth and bloom 

my body still believes in resurrection 
even when I do not 

so, I try to tend the land, 
learn to say 
while I work the wounded places, 
“I did the best I could,
and so did they.” 

can I really be that 
generous to the guilty? 
to them?
to myself? 

as I face forward toward the sun, 
compassion grows like a mustard tree behind me
first sheltering in my shadow
to then shelter me 

it takes root in even the worst of my days
and even while I learn the shape 
of the words that will bind up 
my most broken places, 
compassion covers me 

one day I know, 
I will see it all made new,
the way God’s grace overwhelmed 
what was dead and buried 
there in my hurting, hopeful heart 
and is now full with the fruit 
of abundant life