Dusty Idol

If it wasn't for my slow feet
it would have escaped my
weak wet eyes and grey hair.
Unattended, alone, dusty
Holy to my mind
unholy to the uncaring passer-by
I held it close
the chipped, clay model of God
A measure of hope
for my unknown self
discovered... on cracked footsteps.
Holiness, in a crevice
Hope in mud..


"Hope" is the thing with feathers- that perches in the soul--- Emily Dickinson