To a Missionary

by Laurel Stowe

What are you given, that gnawing,

That dull ache of empty remembering

Some folds of a foggy light that once

Held touch?

It makes you reach again to feel your hand close

on empty earth air …

Somewhere was a voice once, whispering

A plea, translated now to Call

With voice of fire in your heart

Gives birth to hope, and with your

Empty fingers, touch a warm again.

And like the Christ, you seek

His sheep you both now love.