Most days my sight
avoids the intersection
of creation and sorrow.
Others are standing there.
I see them; they are caught mid-step
by the weight of loss.
Grieving in Mogadishu;
running as Rohingya;
neighbours on the other side of my heart.
Oh, that I could run.
Together we could kneel
before One who knows the hours.
We would cry
for mercy.