Like a spirited theological colloquy between two people
whose faith has failed,
two trees, alders, whipped drastic in the gust
that subsided so suddenly it seemed each had inhaled, and stilled.
Whatever the birds were that flitted back and forth between them then,
they made a silver seeming noise.
This morning’s mountains, windy, wet, all white
and brown, are bleating from the lambs first shorn,
whose gift of self removed, appear forlorn,
while Martha spins her wheel in dawning’s light.
And Martha’s yarn’s a gift of self, as well,
infused with sweat, her skill, and love, and tear
so I can knit a scarf for you, my dear,
A scarf wherein my self, my love, will dwell.
One set of scholars believes that the Book of Kells
was created to honor the 200th anniversary
of the death of Colum Cille (St. Columba).
What God promised, really, was art.
To invent hip hop. Or Elvis.
When God said, “Let there be light,”
God meant, “Don’t be scared of the explosion.”
Martha knows the dinner will not cook itself.
Mary feels the moment swiftly passing.
Martha knows each thing has its place.
Mary notices how each thing changes with the light.
Martha knows a word from him would change things.
Mary turns the words like honeyed almonds in her mouth.
Martha knows the kitchen turned temple,
The pot of stew a thurible, filling every empty space.
Mary listens with a thirst that frightens her
For something that makes no sound.
The moon tonight smells like linen,
clean & pressed, spreading
its blue fabric over not just May’s fields
but the willow by the pond,
the hens in the one-window coop,
the Lab on the lawn,
poking her nose into the myrtle.
The sky tastes like a mug of tea,
warm & smooth with cream,
served at a welcoming table.
Should God suddenly speak,
the phlox would not be flummoxed
or the red-tailed fox baffled.
After all, green already
pulses through everything,
Fishers of men
Because you found me somewhere in-between,
Because you realized the truth of that,
You pulled me up. The not-seen was now seen—
Like something that’s half-buried, serpentine,
A vine the wind has covered, dust unset—
Because you found me. Somewhere in-between,
The insects covered me in celebration,
And God began to pull, from where He sat.
You pulled me too. The not-seen was now seen:
My doctor tells me I will need a scan;
I tap a nervous rhythm with my feet,
“Just count to five,” she says, “and then sit down.
The gist of it is printed on this sheet,
So read it over when you are at home.
We’ll have a clearer picture when we meet.”
I read the letter in a waiting room,
Its language strangely rich for one like me
Image, Contrast, Resonance; a poem
Slips into view amidst the litany
Of Latin terms that make our medicine
A new poetic terminology.
“As an earthling, you are traveling in space at this very moment
at a speed of 67,000 miles per hour on the ancient pilgrimage
of Earth’s 365 day journey around our daystar, the sun.”
—Edward Hays, A Pilgrim’s Almanac
A nightcrawler has found itself marooned,
Surrounded unexpectedly by sidewalk.
Night rain caused it to move (as earthworms do)
Up to the surface, then across slick grass,
Picking up speed—until the surface changed
From slick, wet grass to concrete, where it stopped.
Now, in a clearing sky, the sun keeps climbing.
Worms breathe through skin that must stay moist to breathe.