Because I can’t make things better,
I offer you tea. I am grateful when you accept.
The night holds us both
as we sit in the kitchen,
your voice a small boat
in an ocean of ache.
Because I can’t fix the problems,
I cover you with a blanket
when I see you are shivering,
though I know your shudders
have little to do with cold.
Still, it feels good when you pull
the white throw around you,
as if for the moment you’re protected.
I think of the Queen of Sheba,
how she learned to be grateful
for falling. How, in the dark,
she found her own light within,
then rose up and shared
this pearl with the world.
Because you are hurting,
I listen to you, would listen
all night, would listen all week.
I offer my whole attention.
And as you find in yourself
the light that is there,
I marvel as you marvel
at your own wisdom, your
own strength.
I listen. I nod.
I pour you tea.
