My Franciscan friend turned a truth in his hand like a crystal from the desert
breath blown upon it to clear away the dust
He meditated as he walked the labyrinth
making a review of his life
twists and turns, changes of place and structure
there had been wounds
those deep disappointments that scar the soul
His words fell around me like summer rain
like grace itself
For those minutes of searching a life
illuminated scars marked not failures
nor tests nor the chagrin of loss that should have been avoided
Instead the emergent human work of being
like a living sculpted art work
beautiful in its flaws
treasure of creation
one true being
wrapped in the parchment of love
For Harry Coverston
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