She shifts her weight uncomfortably
The pitcher and the basin drawing near
Wanting shyly but so desperately
To have him come and pour his clear
And shining stream of servant-hearted love
Across her bashful feet.
But knowing
How he’d have to see the rough
And calloused sole—the thought of showing
Him the spot she stubbed her toe
And left an ugly tear that never rightly closed
Is unbearably embarrassing to her—and so
She keeps her feet tucked in and unexposed.
If only (this her ardent wish) we could have him wash
Our souls without this all too clumsy touching of our flesh.
0 comments:
Post a Comment