by Paul C. Binotto
© 2020
Children, though they be not our own.
Are so much more than flesh and bone.
But seeds, and soil, to be sown.
Though you may never see them fully grown,
Plant them, tend them, weed them, hone
Their tools to take along.
To arm themselves, in prayer and psalm.
In agitation, to find their calm,
And their place within His palm.
From the nest, as eagle, flown,
Pray they yet, of dove’s down,
Make their heart nest, not stone.
And, with it, make your own,
(Place to rest).
And leave the rest, and of that great unknown,
(Why!, that gnaws you to the bone),
for God to do and know alone.
Fostertales 