Trust speaks a foreign language I have yet to train
my tongue to shape, my ear to comprehend.
I’ve rejected trust as alien even when she longs for refuge
in those pockets of my soul where I’ve long harboured fear
She is a friend I’ve often spurned,
yet persistence grants her patience while I seem to keep her waiting.
She keeps on quietly pointing to a path I’ve yet to walk
and she’s fluent in a patois I thought I’d never learn.
On a day when I am desperate and lack the way to calm,
I rifle through my pockets and swiftly come upon them—
my fears and my anxieties, a thick huddle in the dark—
I set them free—and not just once, but daily—
in a ritual of forgiveness where I make the space for trust.
Dressed in pale green garments, she grins in her delight
when I offer words of welcome in the language that she loves.