Face to face with our limits,
Blinking before the frightful
Stare of our fraility,
Promise rises
Like a posse of clever maids
Who do not fear the dark
Because their readiness
lights the search. Their oil becomes
the measure of their love,
Their ability to wait —
An indication of their
Capacity to trust and take a chance.
Without the caution or predictability
Of knowing day or hour,
They fall back on that only
Of which they can be sure:
Love preceeds them,
Before it
No door will ever close.
T. J. O’Gorman