Sunday, March 29, 2015

Coffee, Palm Sunday

Coffee, Palm Sunday, four in the morning.
Three hours until the earliest liturgy,
ten hours until a late lunch in the Square.

I waken after a paltry spell of sleep
to find your latest poem at Our Place,
I liven as I greet your God-pulsed words.

The March trees seem as dead as Lazarus
in the black foredawn. Snow from yesterday
shrinks darkly on the promenade outside.

Dear friend, it is a limitless privilege
to share this world of wound and weal with you:
such solidarity in our solitudes!

I Would Give You

Friend, sage,
I would give you

an atmosphere
in which all
your tenderly living

have breathing room,
have space
to grow
and flourish
and sing:

of the votive flame,

of the firefly,

silent hymn
of winter starlight,

the unmistakable
first few drips
of melting mid-March ice.

Your Poems

Your poems are windows
through which we can see
life in its common splendor,
its ramshackle oddity.

Your poems are photographs
of daily grace, of moments
when the things of earth
become sacraments of joy.

Your poems make music
in their austere silences,
in their monastic simplicity--
heart's health; soul's hope.