blown wild in the weeds of your encouragement,
raucous hope and i would find a common kin.
or at least, a belonging: a restful hope,
where others could only pause.
neatly you resheath your claws, i am
ever grateful for the glamour of rebuke but
you refused, and so i wounded myself.
etched in my skin is years of decisions:
did you mean that? did i?
grace is chief in your arsenal but
i am too tired to witness it.
rest awhile with me, you've said, but
little rest can be allowed.