Lay It Down

Lay It Down

Hate is wet clay,
clinging to bones
like lichen on a dying tree.
Anger is an anvil
fused to your spine,
bending you earthward.

You don't need a god
for kindness to flow,
like spring melt cascading
down mountain stone,
like sweet briar
opening to the sky
without commandment.

Some mornings I lay down my weapons:
sharp words, remembered wrongs,
the artillery of old arguments
dragging through years like chains.
I know the war that never was, is over.

You don't need a god
to be kind.
Mercy is older
than any temple,
grace preceded
every prayer ever spoken.

Travel light, my love—
let the clay crumble back to earth.
Leave weight by the roadside,
feed strangers without question,
simply pass the bread.

Oh, how much higher
your hands will lift
toward the endless sky
when empty of stones.

-nl
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