Branches

broken off

lie in the soil where

the seeds already lied.

Where they plotted 

on the rocks 

luring people 

to where they knew 

the soil was thin.

They didn’t want change 

nor salvation

for anyone.

They wanted to be adored. 

Some of the branches

cut neat from the tree

large and heavy

in the dark 

fools, the naive, will trip.

Where your word 

has sown not, 

ploughed not,

there can only be darkness.

No lamp, no light

restrains

the mischief of the branches 

pruned so they won’t 

receive spring’s sweet sap.

Beautiful branches too

get severed

while grateful twigs 

adorn the vine for dear life.

The vine that yields hope 

Even in Belsen

even in Nagasaki,

even now in this winter garden

where pilgrims 

will keep hope alive.