Good Friday

The unleavened bread rests on the red dish,

the little glasses await the wine.  On our table,

hyacinths heave their insistant fragrance

through the room.  Each year we mark

the day this way – no priests to bless this supper,

only us,  five people in a little house, a hand

of human hope and folly.  All this, the bread,

the wine, the hyacinths, the way sun declares

through faded curtains, and outside, daffodils

frilly and sun-drunk over the mess of last years garden,
the vibrant sparrow song so loud it woke me
through closed windows, the noise of three sons
sending up their holy rock and roll, the clack of keys,
my huband and I each striving to juggle dumb syllables
back to some semblance of the Word we all betray -

what does it mean, all this, about the tomb, the human,

flesh, blood, and whatever it is that keeps rising up

and saying, devour me now while there is time?

My Book!

I am thrilled to share the news that I have a book of poetry coming out this year.   In fact, I'm looking over a draft copy right now.  This is a goal I've been consciously working toward for several years.  As a writer, I see my role, usually, as the servant of the poem.  I'm not so much making the poem express what I want to say as helping the poem discover what it wants to say.  Implicit in this way of experiencing the writing process is the sense that poem wants to be read -- wants to be received, wants to give itself to someone who will enjoy it, who will love it, perhaps even need it.  My prayer for this book is that it will wing its way to the readers these poems are dreaming of.

Love this cover image.  "Ghosting" by Owen Rose

Fly, little poems, fly!