This morning, the sky in York was bright and blue and beautiful. No sight of rain. With an early cup of coffee, I climbed the stairs to our tiny study, opened my old blue pad, and wrote the following poem.
The things that cannot shake
Do not speak in our currency.
Their exchange rate mocks our money--
Of what value is paper, gold, or worry?
The things that cannot shake
Enter through holes we have not plugged;
They surface on the wounds we forsake;
They stand on the moments we might begrudge.
The things that cannot shake
Make love real--
Where the soul, in passion, refuses to break,
When the heart, in humility, will kneel.
