The saints here are lightning,

incisive slash across the grey keep,

flash of faith in the face of the tightening noose

wrenched loose and flung away

in the name of the coming New Day.

At every blow there is strong stand-up:

defiance of wrong, long reliance on the little

to whittle down the mountain, to forge

the treacherous pass at last,

and two swords is enough.

For the addict, human touch.

For heavy red earth, rusted

wheelbarrows. For tumbling plastic

in the street, soil and seed.

For the Asperger child, a seat and a name.

For the rain, fire. For the fire, fuel.

The pinnacle reached by rule of descent,

leaving skin behind on the barbed wire.

The saints here are lightning

on the brave side of wild,

a net for the discarded to form

a mosaic of the unheralded,

masterpiece of the absurd

poised aside the crowded roadways,

stretching along the lonely beaches

singing into the gusty wind

a song that cannot but be heard.

Having just returned from an inspiring week in the Dominican Republic learning from church and community leaders, I write this poem as a tribute to these unsung heroes--in particular, Ernesto and Altagracia Bathermy, pastors of Vision Celestial in Los Alcarrizos, and Rafael Hernandez, pastor of Iglesia Communitaria Cristiana in the colonial city of Santo Domingo.