Alex C
Eisenberg

               It doesn’t interest me what wealth you have built

               even if you have built it from nothing.

               I want to know what your heart is made of

               and if it is strong enough to weather the storms

               of living in the flesh of this world;

               if it is flexible enough to bend without snapping

               in the humility and hubris of growth;

               if you are brave enough to reach your roots deep

               into the well of grief, to drink.

               I want to know if you are willing to stretch yourself

               far out into the world with quaking limbs

               and unfurl a blossom-filled hand as an offering

               of tender beauty to share with all who pass.

               Will you let them pluck, freely, a ripened fruit

               from your delicious being?        I want to know

               if you will offer these gifts, dripping from your fingers

               in a rich display of dressing-down, and release;

               and if you are willing to do this year after year

               though it will leave you exposed, arid, empty, cold.

               I want to know if you can be warmed

               by your own kindness; if your heart is made

               of wood and blood; if you are willing to live

               by giving of yourself to earth and air and other;

               to rot, to burn, to turn with time, to change.

               It doesn’t interest me what you’ve managed to save.

               I want to know what you’ve given away.