The saints wear strange disguises,
and loan us their strength
or a paper clip.
They hum and whistle
and stand up tall,
or rounded over a tilted cane.
They whisper apologies
for the world's more calloused inhabitants,
or holler a count
and make you jump across wet grass
turning your dwindling courage
into something of more weight, that's also more light.
They tell truth that makes you laugh,
or they stand silent at a distance,
unarmed guardians.
Goodness in its many shapes,
the sweet, the scary, the child-like,
the bold chest thumpers
the costumed and the camouflaged.
We see
the terrorizing few humans
who only get no,
who build roadblocks, who explode bridges.
We might miss the saints completely
if they were not so clever
at finding a crevice
and curling into the hearts
of the injured, the bewildered
the lost not quite found.