Can We Love Ourselves Best

Can we love ourselves best when at our most terrible?
When every word is a pinch and a hard punch to the head?
Can we have grace for the splash of mud thrown on our Sunday best?
Even without a backward glance of forgiveness?
Can we extend a steady hand to that which is odorous and tough as flint?
Sure we will be met with the snarling, hard bite of contempt?
Can we wash the piling laundry and sweep the floor of debris each week?
Knowing the clean lasts only as long as a meteorite’s promise?
Can we love ourselves best when at our most terrible?
Holding sharp stones of hope in each palm to keep our heart from faltering?