Through the glass one can see a slender arm
And a shift in the light shows it to be
All splotchy in decaying reds, greens, and blues
Seemingly covered in a tropical blight
The window slides open to a beautiful smile…
There’s a rainbow blooming in the garden
An array of colors adorning the sides of the path
As petals unfurl and release their sweet perfume
While melodies are swapped at the bird bath
So there you were with a tube in your arm
And a crossword puzzle and pen in your hands
And a lovely view of a sunlit roof
With windblown debris whipping between the vents
Garage-sale-blocked again, the one-lane road Hosts cars on both sides, and oxygened-men Defiantly aluminum-caning the middle In their Quixotic quest for eternal youth
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After doing some time in this fallen world
We all are broken, and missing a few of our parts
Having lost some hopes and strengths along the way
But we keep chooglin’ along, making it work
Palm Sunday is easy for the rest of us
A procession with palms from the parking lot
Praising God through an asphalt Jerusalem
A Subaru on His right hand, a Dodge on His left
We all have lists of absent friends Who were with us one week and Covid the next With unfinished stories and little jokes We meant to tell each other the next time we met
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Spring, it won’t be long before the hills are covered in green
Spring, I want to roll in all the scents that flowers bring
We all dream of our own library someday
Shelf after shelf of finely bound editions
An oak-paneled room with a stone fireplace
And French windows that open to the sea
When the ink on his Gospel had barely dried
Saint Matthew was interrupted by angelic sights
And then to him a Voice from Heaven cried:
“Select all images with traffic lights!”
I passed two men who were building a fence
With hands and tools and strength and uncommon sense…
Let’s unpack the cliches and hyperbole
The nuclear option and we’ve got this
What we know now we have our options frontline
Off the table Armageddon option
Who am I to thee draw nigh?
and who am I that thou wouldst die?
What have mine hands wrought? Light away and darkness brought? Am I become mad? Alack, mine hands are red clad?
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A spokesman for the F.B.I. /
Notes that Jewish hostages were taken…
Well, now, Butch and Sundance (I’ll tell you no lies) /
Stop the U.P. right in its trackages…
When I was a girl, in small-town America, /
There was a street called Parallel, /
Where we Protestants ran alongside the /
Catholics – an historical microcosm of /
Our ancestral nations.
Angels of God, oh glorious host /
Protect those who need you most /
Guide and teach us ever this day /
And keep all of our temptations at bay.
That star that led us to a stable long ago /
And now bathes our souls with its silver glow
We bring our gifts to Mary’s fair-born Child: /
A pen, a broom, a book, a welding rod, /
A wrench, a mop, some papers neatly filed – /
Our daily labors offered up to God /
