April 4, 2010

Dark before morning. A few birds feel it coming, sing. I woke in turbulence, fearing that I had missed Easter, but I had not. I rose with Easter all before me. It was relief and redemption, simple, sweet. I am not used to those feelings. I am not used to the wholly uncomplicated, wholly credulous versions of those feelings. I stood on the front porch, feeling the morning come, feeling the strange, merry peace, assuring the One who was coming that all is well, and that we await with a shout of gladness.


Good Friday Meditation


I thought I was working in my garden.
Blaze at my back. Blue. That incomparable
April sky.
Music of a bird, or three birds, different.
I will not go to church today.
I will show how little difference it all makes.
I will birth into the ground these blossoms.

Delving, I thought to bring, in due time,
something forth.

But I had been looking down the whole while
at the tangled complexity beneath,
roots whose flowers are forgotten,
the foundations that do not remember
what they lifted up.
Worm. Bones

Music of those different birds, one then:
I could not tell.
The blue stood ablaze amid another blue.

I came to myself
patting dirt around the planted flowers,
learning sorrow from my knees,
solemnity from the heels of my hands.


April 3, 2010

First brush-up for Hamlet. Rough.