Dented fenders

A dented fender threatened me,

Rose up, tried to shout it's name

and smacked my child.

You reached out

Saying Not Today

And laid her down on an asphalt bed
Between two parallel lines of white

And kissed her on the head.

Meanwhile you pushed a father's legs to run faster

and calmed his heart to keep him steady.

You handed the cell phone to a sister and helped her press 911

while you lifted a driver's head and straightened a mother's route,
moved a car to the left to let an ambulance through
and cleared a policeman's desk.

Woke a grandparent and gave a church a prayer,
suggesting a space for community where we had decided none.
Opened a room at the hospital and settled a coughing nurse,

joined hands of a feuding couple,
and introduced strangers, offering space to pray again.
Gave doctors negative reports and denied their findings.

It was just one small moment in one small space,
but You connected dots like stars
and made us all look up.
Then walked away as if to say:
It was nothing.

   a deck shuffled
   a warm up stretch
   perhaps a pebble kick

And we were left to wonder:
   why and how

And perhaps that,
precisely,
is the point.