Have you ever seen a mesquite tree?
Invasive and foreign, but living in our world
And breathing our carbon dioxide like it's free--
It is, little one, and trees live where seeds land:
scattered across borders, a handful of pearls.
You are free, too, and you make your roots here,
Straddling and subject to law and legacy
People will tell you, this land is not so dear
As your home, but here you are in the heart of home
and the land of your mother is only 8 miles southeast.
The mesquite wood we hold is not from here, either--
An immigrant, too through scrub pockets and cars
As atoms, having traveled through hands and through ether
Has come a long way to Mission, to this back-alley clinic
to you, all the way from the centers of stars.
For weeks, your people have prayed our safe coming
The dust on the chapel floor is blessed in our name
We are the hands and feet of Christ, pale and loving
And at last we greet the dust on your floors
and in dust, you and I are one and the same.
Bearing our small wooden crosses, syringes and pens,
Blood pressure cuffs, chlorhexidine and pills,
Await our arrival, and your blessings, and then
You and I, armed with bridges over Bibles
we open our doors to the weary and ill
I'm a stranger, myself, in a Christian nation
And, unanointed, move foreign among you
Quoting no scriptures, but knowing love and salvation
And resolve, and now here, I know you and know
To be a stranger is to be one of few,
and you know it, too.
A small mesquite cross, from across stranger seas
To a hand, to a hand, to a heart is handed
Passed through congregations, passed on through me,
To be passed to a wooden sanctuary drawer
Or box, blessed with dust and abandoned.
In a week, we leave the ill and enlightened
In vans, packs, teams, we travel in droves
From afar, by small wooden crosses united
To each other and back to the heart of home
