I walked in Old Salem
where centuries ago Moravians
hewed points on timber walls,
strolled among Dogwoods and lavender Wisteria,
Creek mist dampening spectacles.
Honeysuckle filling every green passage,
Cardinals beaded like blood drops against lime leaves
and I grope for words I never knew
and fumbling to grasp grief’s treachery
—A blur of splinters, thorns, and iron spikes—
and I wonder, stepping in Moravian footprints,
whether Your greatest weight
was suffering or mercy?