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Manhunt Driving through the morning’s round of drop-offs the radio tells of man hunting man and I watch as magnolia trees drop great showers of silky, blushing blooms. Spring is the foolish season whose beauty we cannot long endure so the trees, in their gracefulness,...
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Holy Saturday’s Work (for that which is already but not yet) Go outside and kneel beside still-sleeping beds. Strip away all that’s dead; the leaves, brown and curled, and the dry, empty stems of last year’s blossoms. Straighten, one-by-one, the...
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“But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion . . .”...
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The Fallow Field I wonder whether the field that lies fallow for a season, envies a neighboring field’s productivity? Or whether it simply lies there resting, drinking in the warm sunshine as it is restored, grateful. I’m coming into yet another week tired and...
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I wrote this poem this past December and then let it sit for a good long while. Now it seems to me that it has something to do with Lent and Jesus’ invitation to follow him into the desert for these forty days. When I wrote it, I was thinking of...
