Come to my house

Poem by Dana Littlepage Smith

'The footprints of Lazarus still blaze in desert dust, waiting to spark fire in imagination.' | Photo: by Derek Thomson on Unsplash

Some would number us
in lost accounting piles:
a wind toppled abacus of old Quakers.

Our vestments of truth may be
frayed to lace, the burlap of equality
clotted with centuries of mistakes.

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