Unveiling

I saw it---

a city, not made

with hands, 

not rising up,

coming down

as if light, tired

of waiting, had 

grown homesick

for the scent of grass

and the sound of

children laughing 

outside kitchen 

windows.

I saw it---

twelve holy gates

with feet on the earth:

hospice nurses

standing beside

every last breath,

night janitors

mopping blood

from emergency 

room floors,

foster parents

opening their doors,

knowing how the 

goodbyes were

going to hurt,

prison librarians

slipping poems in

between the

hardness of bars,

barely remembered

neighbors staying

behind to help the 

grieving wash dishes,

interpreters

stitching together

words and distances,

crossing guards

stopping the world

in all weather

for the smallest feet,

teachers

who still believe in

the ones given up on

by everyone else,

farmworkers

stacking food

on the tables of

far away strangers,

cashiers in stores

asking lonely regulars

about their cats or 

their dogs,

cooks in early

morning diners 

filling plates for

overnight travelers,

landscapers 

taking care while

trimming around 

graves of the

forgotten dead.

I saw it---

quiet faithfulness,

unnoticed labor,

hidden tenderness.

And I heard a voice cry out,

“These are how heaven enters the world.”