FOB (Fresh Off the Boat)

If you could see yourself now,
Your sweet humility gently humming
Soft forgiveness to their raucous slurs,
A peacock singing to crows,
Your work-worn hands folded neatly,
Keeping warm in their new winter gloves;

If you could hear your name,
Unfolding whole and sacred,
A silver sweeping wave of sound
Echoing the distant sun-drenched years
The scent of summer washed in rain,
The touch of plum, a juicy stain;

Perhaps you would not know the sorrow you feel,
Nor suffer heartache from callous strangers
Locked up in the cold climate of their lives,
Their worlds mere ice
To your memory of paradise.