A Covenant Poem

By Cynthia Huddleston, Covenant member
                                    2000

 
A Covenant is made
   Promises articulated
      Stones laid in an altar
         amid blades of grass and trees
            and thorny points.
Visions seen of walls so straight
   and stones made high
      paths worn
         fields trod by tiny feet.
Dreams barely breathed of yards of lace
   and chunks of cake
      and tiny drops of water
         beading on a perfect head.
Prayers lavished on a people
   who come and go, and stay
who fell tall trees
         and pull up roots
            and make ways straight

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                 and lay new roots.
   Who laugh and die
      and clap hands
         and hold dying hands.
   Who work and rest
      and meet by a fire
         and meet on a porch
            and meet needs.
   Who welcome and bid farewell
      and tend to pots
         and tend to children
            and tend to be like family.
And stones are dug
   and stones are laid
      and stones made high
And trees are felled and grieved
   and trees made smooth
      and trees made tight.
Surfaces smooth and rough and
   new and old.
Our place is a paradox and we are, too.
   Smooth and rough and
      young and old and
         grasping and holding,
            joyful and tearful.
Our place has been made,
   never to be finished.
We are made,
   never to be completed here.
 Always felling trees
   and pulling up roots
      and making ways straight
         and laying new roots.
 Always holding dying hands
   and welcoming tiny hands
 and grasping and holding
and meeting and tending
         to be like family