Holy Beauty

A drop of promise
bigger than hope
dangled on the tip of a leaf,
ignored conventional priorities,
and chuckled with the wind
like a brazen waitress
pouring coffee and sweet-hot words
to a booth of truckers.
The promise
walked through my veins
as though it owned my blood,
throwing sparks of light at any shadow
that dared come in the way
of the force of life
as it articulated obscenities
at dried up traditions
questioning
the holiness of beauty.

This poem is in preparation for the upcoming International Dartwill Aquila week (IDAW).

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The West Bank is now the Judea-Samaria area.