Too often when they speak of saving,
they trust in guns and violence,
fire and smoke.
But what of the saving you do
when you hold a trembling hand in yours?
When you sit and listen,
when you humble yourself
and let the soft-spoken speak?
What of the saving that is done in softness?
A kind word pressed between pages,
unhurried like the clouds,
gentle as the smell of perfume when the sun is out.
What of the lives you save by being not brave, but kind?