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Showing posts from April, 2011

Easter Sunday

The body in the tomb was deader than dead,
for not only had the flesh rotted away and the bones turned to dust,
But the soul had died also -
passed out of memory so long ago that she had forgotten who she was,
Having lived so long only as an image in other people's minds.

Come to think of it, even in her heyday
she had been rather insubstantial - a sort of shade among shadows
Desperately reaching for proofs of her existence;
but strangers buried her; picking over her small horde, they didn't know
What this pot meant or why that ornament -
And tossed some of it in with her and the rest consigned to oblivion.

Poor soul: every molecule dispersed
to some far corner of the universe

So He died that Friday and
appeared to that nothingness in her tomb

Within His eternity He had long years
to sit there, calling back the fragments of her existence,
And wrestle that angry soul back into life,
long years in that tomb with her stinking carcass, remembering gently
Who she had really been and could be.

Let us w…

The tree outside my window

is sprouting tiny, crumpled leaves. I was enjoying that fact today, and suddenly realized that the tree had finally shed the dry red leaves that it had worn all winter. I remember wondering just a week or two ago how those dead leaves could cling so tenaciously, through wind and rain. Now they've disappeared, seemingly at the last possible moment.

Pointillism in the Air

This spring is emerging atom by atom - coming so slowly we can see everything growing in slow motion. Today I drove in a rainstorm, staring open-mouthed at the trees delicately dotted with closed buds and tightly furled leaves. There are three shades of leaves: green, yellowish, and reddish, and some of the trees have opened a little more than others, the leaves unbinding themselves into tiny ruffles and frills. The buds are emerging by color: pink first (magnolias waving pink globes, cherry trees so pale they're almost white); the white trees came early this week; on Friday I started seeing purple. The full-blown cherries are weighed down by rain; the flowers have a heavy, fruitful look as they pull down on their branches. A weeping cherry I glimpsed today looked like a waterfall of blossoms.

The Substance of Things Hoped For

It's a slow, messy spring. It's been teasing us with hints of warm weather and sunshine (such a very little bit of sunshine) blown away in wind and rain and chilly air. Every few days I catch a new flower in bloom or tree awakening. One by one new birds add their voices to the morning chorus.
This is the year reborn in the real way: messy and ugly as childbirth, and just as full of hope and delight. Painfully (and painstakingly) slow - the carefulness of a scattering of reddish buds emerging on a bare wet tree. And yet the tactile beauty of these words, and the loveliness that exists already. This is what I looked for so long. Can it really be true?
In my world God has always meant rules and love has been a sham, something people use to get you to do what they want. Words like love, salvation, goodness have the meanings sucked out of them by people who don't believe the real thing could possibly exist. Anything worth having is turned into an abstraction.
Where is love? How do…