It doesn’t matter how deeply you dig the hole,
how much dirt you’ve flung in my face,
how much rancor I absorbed as it flew from your lips,
or how fiercely you shake your fists at the sky, in misguided rage.
When the sun beats down,
I will make myself a canopy to shield you from the heat.
When you weaken from digging, and you hunger,
I will give of my own food for your nourishment.
When your sadness overcomes you,
and the tears pour from your eyes,
I will give you my voice as encouragement.
And when your body fails, and your spirit weakens, and you grow weary of the struggle, and the damp, dark, depths, of the hole that you’ve dug, just look up,
and the hands extended,
waiting to pull you into the light,
will be mine.