This week is The Heatwave. I appreciate the warmth, but the air is heavy and oppressive.

So is the news. Israel and Palestine. Flight MH17 and the reminder of ongoing conflict in Ukraine. (and other places too – Central African Republic, for example – which aren’t in the headlines at the moment but which continue to be troubled)… sometimes the mind boggles at all the turmoil in the world.

One tender love poem is on my mind at times like this:


A man crosses the street in rain,

stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.

No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.

This man carries the world’s most sensitive cargo
but he’s not marked.
Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,

His ear fills up with breathing.
He hears the hum of a boy’s dream
deep inside him.

We’re not going to be able
to live in this world
if we’re not willing to do what he’s doing
with one another.

The road will only be wide.
The rain will never stop falling.

– Naomi Shihab Nye, 1952


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