διδάσκω

I lost His voice, next to me since death, 

protecting me from regret, beckoning me 

to take the chance, to eat the moment, 

to catch the apple falling from the tree

– before it hits me on the head – and take a bite.

Now I search, like reaching for the light switch 

in the dark. Their eyes look up at me, and to me, 

and I want to save them all. But I am a spec 

of dust compared to what they really need. 

Why or how we could ever think that dust 

particles alone were capable of saving another, 

I don’t know. And, yet, here we are. Trying.

While living in the knowledge of inadequacy, 

all I long to do is move mountains.

Only God could make dust inspiring.

*didaskó: to teach