Sister Anne Arrives in Haiti

Blind babies will not see, the lame not walk for me,
But I can teach the deaf to dance, the lame to sing,

the blind to play the music.

I cannot light the jungle of fear,
Writhing with terror and tears of uncertain tomorrows,
But I can find its scarlet butterflies, its yellow birds

and burning blossoms,     

Fireflies and glowing eyes of gentle creatures.
I can draw back the rag that hangs at the door of Poverty's hut,
And see it grow bright with wisdom and faith and Caribbean sun.
I am too frail to halt attacking hunger of body and spirit,
Hurricane winds, battle and hatred,
Dusty thirst of restless mountains.
But I can nourish with beauty and hope and a vision,
Feel God's miraculous touch in little black fingers,
Clasping hand in hand in hand, small invincible stones

in a fortress of love.      

I cannot silence threatening drums and chanting witchcraft,
Echoed in vine-tangled calls of mysterious killers and demons,
Mourning roar and hiss of the sea on shore,
But I can lift the voices of island children,
Music the Father uses to speak to men
In loud hallelujahs that smother the funeral howling
With jingling calypso and burnished allegro, in reels and

hosannas.                 

I can give nothing; the gifts are God's and His glory;
I can but open the arms of His children to know Him.
I am one harpstring He touches, one note of the song of His
kingdom.

This poem was previously published in The Caribbean Writer

(c)Patsy Anne Bickerstaff          2000