When I was Zorba

before I had grandchildren

i partnered with my sorrows

"Come on my boys, dance with me

'neath a squandered moon."

i turned my cheek 

then gave the other

and told them, “Hit me harder.”

hid my wounds and learn to love

the taste of the bitter melon

on their agony I did spit

when others asked for pity

never looked back once

to give a hand of mercy

not i but God who wept

denying second chances

ne'er i prayed for intervention 

for the fallen ragged soul

they had made their beds

they had dug their graves

eden had escaped them

lend me blade and shovel bent

permit me bed their flowers

in the light of a pallor moon

i had a father to match wits

in raising my own children

i didn't need a better model

to know i should not follow

my grandchild is a different bird

for her a warmer nest

for her i'd give my soul

my body second best

i don't dance when her wings falter

by the weakness of the wind

or tell her to bare a cheek

for the world to slap on skin

i guard her like an only bud

first in season blooming

if there's an intervening God

his hand i ask for screening

from him i ask to intervene

next to her, protecting her

as far as his eyes can see

next to her, embracing her

like a sky o'erlaps a sea