When I feel ready to pummel
Jean and Pierre because, once again,
they left the gate open,
and I had to spend half my morning
chasing down a dozen feisty pigs,
Mother reminds me that
along with the squealing swine
I must seek patience.
I muzzle my lips
as I corral the hogs.
Sometimes my life feels as fixed
as that of the pigs I pen.
Have I no higher purpose
than filling slop trays?
I cross myself and pray
that I may understand my place
and find contentment therein.
In response, the same voice
I heard in the garden tells me:
Jehanne,
you are meant to do something more.