Poem July 31, 1995 ISSUE

Stings

Charlotte Egea

Angry words stung like the hornets whose nest was stirredby a broom held all wrong,as a boy swept the porch, his job that day,and I shouted to make my point heard.

The little boy turned from the pain of both stingsto thoughts above from God,where no evil is real—no stinging, no anger—and I came to apologize and hug.

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