Who could control, much less conceive,
how others judge when they believe
they'll know us from one glance or sound?
What have we lost in what they found?

If you would listen, hear me out,
and set aside your pride and doubt,
we'd have some hope of getting there,
that even field past a prayer

where peace resides in what will be
(not merely where we might agree)
and tolerance comes commonplace.
Envision such a welcome space:

begin as strangers, nameless faces
(untold tales from unknown places)
arriving in a mild mind
to be received yet not defined.

Imagine beauty through all eyes.
Reflect on what the others prize:
nostalgic objects, recipes,
the scent of coffee, rings of keys,

a photograph, the crescent moon,
the world inverted in a spoon,
the mountainside, a bolting mare,
December starlight, flowing hair,

a quiet Sunday, autumn leaves,
an aria, when time deceives,
the geese returning toward the spring,
an apple pie, how crickets sing,

the silence of a telephone,
warm blankets over aching bone,
an ocean's flow, outrageous dance,
the open road, another chance.

As paintings picture things portrayed,
I might surmise how you were made,
since life exhibits artistry,
but you'd exceed what I could see.

From that I should appreciate
(not sketch or simply illustrate)
your heart--your art--in part or whole.
No, only God shall know your soul.