He comes like a raven to steal our hope.
He circles and hovers,
His eyes filled with greed.
See how we nestle, so small, in the earth?
Tender and vulnerable
New-planted seeds
Are delicious to ravens.
He followed us here,
Perching and waiting till
We left your hand.
Scavenger, stealer,
He preys on the weak,
Searching forest and field,
Mountain and sand.
He chases the sheep herds
And snatches the lambs,
Newborn, from their mothers,
Crying and torn.
His mouth is a knife
Meant to tear and divide.
Disdaining their bleating,
He croaks out his scorn.
He is clever and cunning.
He mimics your speech.
His voice croaks damnation
From gore-crusted beak.
He feasts on the garbage.
He picks at dead flesh.
He lives to devour
Both rancid and fresh.
His hunger is endless.
He's jealous and shrewd.
He flies the earth over
In search of his food.
Deceptively graceful,
He glides, loops, and plays,
While hoarding his harvest
From thieving forays.
Now, here comes the raven
To steal and devour
The seeds that were planted
That dark, stormy hour
When rain washed the ground
And gave life to the dirt,
When grace pierced our crust
And spilled hope into earth.
So he circles and greedily
Starts to compute
Which tender young seedlings
To pluck and uproot.
Which ones are the tastiest
Hopes to ingest?
He will save some for later
But first eat the best.
New life? Or forgiveness?
Friendship, perhaps.
Acceptance? Redemption?
He eyes them askance.
It's so hard to choose!
They all look delicious.
Then his eye starts to gleam
With a hunger quite vicious,
For he has spied love
Peeking up from the dirt.
There are several varieties.
Which to pick first?
Self-love is smallest.
It's barely alive.
God-love is largest:
Quadruple in size.
Next is friend-love,
Budding new in this hour,
Like sex-love that's damaged
Yet promises flower.
These loves are the most precious
Seedlings of all,
For, when grown, they are trees
Standing steadfast and tall.
The raven dives swiftly
To scoop up his feast,
But before he can reach it,
A cry is released!
What horror! What anguish!
Oh what is that voice
That seems to transfix him,
Withheld from his choice?
It ruffles his feathers
And shivers his skin.
It pierces his eardrums and
Crumples his wings.
Louder than thunder,
A voice fills the air,
"This is my garden.
Death-bringer, beware."
Shaken and shattered,
The raven takes flight
To return to the dung-heap
And rest for the night.
Tomorrow he might chance
A second foray.
Then again, there is garbage
Aplenty today.
There's a voice that sings over us
Wider than sky,
Taller than mountains, and
Deeper than sea.
It covers the wilderness,
Desert, and fields.
It echoes through caverns
And thunders through trees.
He doesn't forget us
Down here on the earth.
He nurtures and shelters
The work of his hand.
His eye is upon us.
He comes to our aid
When deception would steal
The hope from our land.
Give thanks to the God
Who is stronger than death.
Give thanks to the God
Who is louder than lies.
Rest safe in the garden
Well-planted with hope.
Be still in his presence.
Grow, bloom, and rise.
By: Joy Ortiz
Begun at the breakfast table, and finished while hiding in the bathroom at work.
