Love’s Capacity
The November sunrise
strokes a strip of
frozen grass
as the rest of the ground
waits her turn.
A newspaper, folded &
cold
meets the hand of
one of my
neighbors who lifts the
world
from his front step &
retreats to his
home.
What is the ability of
the grass
to adore the
sun's warming
fingers?
Does the newspaper admire the
man
for rescuing him?
What is the capacity of
my neighbor
to love the woman who waits
for him by
the kitchen window,
peaking out at me over
the rim of
her teacup, steam curling across
her eyes?
Where is the heart of the
nurse
who steps across this morning’s
threshold
into the room of
suffering?
–Erie Chapman
Journal of Sacred Work 
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