rise rife
with life, burrowing blackness
in God’s own time to root, stem
and shoot together.
Nosing clean from ground’s grave
they bear up bravely, eating earth away
denouncing dark with a blind might
in one last germinating gasp
break fast into morning light.
Living Water
(John 4.10)
Light rain—
soft, light rain rains.
Living water reigns.
Water
whether wanted
in storm
or warmed
still we are
watered
drenched
sometimes drowse
as roots
earthbound
feed, so we
night-long long
to rise
to rain
to fall as
light rain—
soft, light rain rains.
Living water reigns.
Spring Buds
In spring
buds are sentient, multi-ocular, perceive
light from everywhere.
Sun’s air heats
sheaths hour by hour
melliferous cups, first filled,
swells that dermis
smaller than eyes can
accommodate to
burst, bloom.
Audience
Above all
this green
leaf-laden lushness
in that tree
I see
from where first
those double notes
burst.
The cardinal sings.
Red-suited
crowned
he a-warbling rings out
then double notes
again.
I am his
only audience
down here
lonely for the taking
ground bound
listening for
love’s call.
I cry aloud, again
please, again!
He does so miraculously
then such a wonder-
ful life proclaim
rejoicing.
I stand below
and know
God too hears.
Dilatation
in summer
this tree
is rain-soaked:
black bark, the smell
of wood, lightning-burnt,
cutaneous, so that it hurts,
green, so that it dilates
the eye
in summer
A Thin Place
(for my mother)
I’m just being quiet
the flat line of your lips
drawn over.
just being quiet. . . .
after years of war
(long forgotten).
The lash of events against
her six-year-old scapulae—
made to strip bare before
hands tore flesh, a blur of
eyes and teeth, unleashed to
drive the point home—
the little upon the least.
Later, in the bath
her welts blister and burn
raw to the touch,
after long hot days when bladder scalds
from dehydration of summer sweat
and too many tears wept
so her eyes swelled.
Or night commands to
shut up your coughing:
her throat ached, trying to,
trying not to
flinch
