"Writing a poem is discovering." - R. Frost

Luke 7: 37 - 47

Dust fills deep creases
Like a map of footsteps
Already taken.
One toenail is black.

Her tears anoint Him.
Her sins flow between His toes.
She kneels,
Touching her cheek to His ankle.
One thick braid
Erases her pain
From the soles of His feet.

Alabaster splinters.
Aroma spills.
Bergamot, almond, cardamom;
Oil separates
From salty water.

Her sins have been forgiven;
She loved much.