Her hands floated gracefully
In the air,
Gently accenting the sweet, floating music of her voice:
“If I were the wind…,
If I were the rain…,
If I were the sun…”
The bright yellow of her blouse
Offset the rich brown of her skin.
She did not face her audience directly,
She turned to the side, eyes closed—
Her song was as much an ethereal prayer
As performance.
This lyrical flower of a girl in what would seem
The harshest of places—
On a bumpy, graveled street of Delmas,
Port-au-Prince,
Haiti,
Nutured by her father/pastor
Who accompanies her song.
The sweet lightness in her voice is
So different from the clingling neediness one can find
At the orphanage her father oversees a few blocks away.
Why should he not want to protect her,
Give her the gentle nurture of the Spirit
As much as he can?
She is the flower
Growing up from the cracked pavement.
When, how, will she encounter the
Harsh realities of her world?
(Already her family had to move away
From angry neighbors who
Attacked them in their own home
Over some dispute with her father’s church.)
He knows she will see the world’s anger
Soon enough—
Perhaps she has already—
Though this moment of lilting reverie
Makes it seems so far removed.
If he is wise, her father knows he cannot shield her,
Only give her a love that
Can take root in her soul, and
Pray she will choose to face the world with
Love’s inner strength, and that
Her song will grow richer,
Deeper, as it encounters the world.
Jonathan Wright-Gray
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