Like a Rose Bud

He was born a peasant,
Conceived, it’s said, inside a gray old barn
And may not have known his true father.
If any ragged magi brought him gifts,
They were a rock, an iron rod, and a smile. 

Some unseen force set his face.
His heart closed fast at first
To certain things, for self-defense perhaps,
but all that matters is
It opened like a rose bud at the last. 

If his father was a stranger,
No stranger was his foe.
Blindness can be a virtue.
If at first he couldn’t see the truth,
He kept on looking till he could. 

And then at last he taught us
how to give ourselves for nothing in return.
If only he’d allowed us that:
To give back to him what he gave us. 

7 August 2021