A poem: Grace Fervour

My limbs are piled on top of
one another.
But it is not messy or unclean, it’s
the mysterious, alluring tangle of the
roots
of an old, robust tree.
This is the only place I know now,
where there is no
shame.
And the stretching of my redbud arms as
the sun caresses me, to prosperity,
is not pride; desire; greed, but
prayer and
grace fervour.

Anam Iqbal