Already he’s lived a dozen years longer
than any other man in his bloodline.
One died of malaria. The rest of heart attacks.
Not one of them knew how to show love.
Sometimes a river changes its course—
perhaps slowly, eroding over centuries.
Perhaps all at once in a mighty flush,
as after a flood or an ice-floe.
I want to ask him how change happened in him—
how the impulse toward anger
rechanneled into tenderness,
into patience, into a willingness to be vulnerable.
I want to believe the same might happen for the world—
that by tending our hearts more carefully,
we might jump the banks of what seemed possible.
We are all of us here to be changed.