(to St. Christopher from the legend in my Mama's story book)
I trace the fault lines in the leaf
and in the sun that golden coin
that burns the most the least of these
the least of these with no relief.
I carry on my back the stone
placed by the builders, cornerstone
of Christ alone who knew all grief
who understood the fissured leaf
the children led so far frose
the least of those he bloomed for
like a rose beyond,
despite the death that should have finished him off.
mary angela douglas 22 october 2021
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