The Shepherd
I gather around me
my rough wool robe.
The dust blows in my face,
making me cough.
When is he going to start?
“Blessed are the poor in spirit . . .”
Right. It’s really a blessing
to be sitting here in a patched robe,
stinking of sheep,
while everyone else pulls away,
won’t look me in the eye.
“…for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
Now that’s a new one—
no one ever told me that before.
All that was mine
was a hillside
and a bush to pee in,
and thousands of dirt-brown sheep.
No, they are not white
and soft.
The lambs are sort of cute though—
The way they wag their tails
while they’re dug in
to the ewe’s side . . .
Now look who he’s blessing!
Mourners who tear their clothes,
the meek—for they shall be trampled upon?
I’m leaving. Sheep can’t look
after themselves, anyway.
I step over and through the crowd
and for the first time
they don’t all shrink back.
A rough-hewn man at the edge of the crowd
gives me a smile.
Who is this guy, anyway?
Karin Forno 10/15/07
published in Inter-Varsity’s Student Leadership journal.
Much like poem. Makes it real. -e.
Thank you. That was what I was trying for, of course.
Karin