Precious Are The Feet of Those

I will clap my hands,
bundle my fingers into fists,
lift them and shake them
and laugh, this belly laugh
of pure simple joy
for the precious feet
that have come through
the stone and dust
to my shelter to find me
to echo my prayers,
to rest a warm hand
on my fevered head
and shower me
with the falling leaves
of the scriptures,
to embrace me
to embrace this broken body
to embrace this flesh
to whisper the balm of love;
yes, I will clap my hands
raise them like the lively
limbs of the trees
up to those hills
joyful together
over this city of stones.