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.

Some ask, ‘What was it all for anyway,
The yea and the nay,
the quiet hours millioned into history?

The musty halls, the steeple house
of orchards where spiders swayed,
what hill was ever moved by all

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