Instead of drawing a line in the sand
He etched a circle.
Within the round sanctuary
He knelt penitent, full of expectancy
The people clinging to a memory of hope.
The frailty of life
A generation resting on his elderly haunches
As he speaks, as one with authority.
He speaks to the heavens
Using his own life as a tithe for the people.
A prayer for the end of a year’s absence.
He’ll stay in his circle until…
A flash of lightening
Enough rain to save them all.
People dance, children splash in their future.
The old man exits his circle
Returning to his humble abode
With his staff and a smile.
[Poem #143. Context: I heard a talk this evening by Mark Batterson, author of the New York Times Bestseller “The Circle Maker“. I was so inspired, I bought the book and this poem is based on Mark’s talk and the 1st chapter of “The Circle Maker.”]