She

has

given

more than all

flashy-robed preachers

and religious entrepreneurs.

This place of worship, built from widows' mites: I tell you,

there won't be a stone left, pressing

down on another.

I have come

to set

you

free.

Birds are awake, and the clouds are dazzling white.
The trees and I have begun to thaw again.
The broccoli plant, forgotten, starts to bloom.
I've finally grown accustomed to the spring. This time, I won't inquire of winter's sleep.
There is a time to burrow in the deep
and silent mysteries underneath the soil.
I'll not begrudge the earth her needful rest,
but just be glad that sap begins to rise,
and leaves will soon be reaching for the light.

The

soul

does not

occupy

euclidean space.

The shortest distance always curls.

A straight line will lead you off into the wild before

you finally wander back again.

That is the long way;

longer if

you try

to

rush.

O mother Monica, patron of drunks
and dehydration, pray for us who thirst
for righteousness, for those of us with self-
restraint sufficient to deny the heart
its true and deep desire. Pray for us
your fumbling foolish prayers, and pray that ours
may likewise fall upon those merciful ears
that hear us with the wisdom that we lack.

What if love is love? What if the colloquial bastardizations are its essence after all? What if I love you the way that I love ice cream and autumn rain, and this is the love that holds the universe together?

What if the new commandment is every bit as absurd as it sounds? Maybe we were never meant to redefine love as a thing that could be forced. Maybe we're supposed to learn the impossible: love the feel of new socks, love the breeze in your hair, love In-N-Out burgers, and love one another.

What if love runs deeper than the doings that inevitably mark it? What if you can give away all that you possess, submit your body to the flames, and discover in the end that it was nothing? What if love is not the sacrifice, but the elusive delight that flows beneath it?

What if love--the trivial, everyday kind of love with which I love Saturday mornings and good coffee and tiny cars--can't be forced, but can be found? What if the one who seeks will always find it?

What if the pure in heart see God?

Casualties of Terror: Kunduz Airstrike, 10/3/2015

We bombed a hospital, perhaps in error.

Human shields? Certainly they shielded
humans. When the enemy is terror,
There is no reasonable doubt. We all have yielded
to this internal foe, rapid-firing
hearts under quivering ribs and shoulder blades.
Guilt is presumed, and there's no use inquiring,
no innocence: we are all afraid.

Oh, by the rockets' red glare, can you say

what this blood-streaked banner ought to mean?

Too many of the brave and the free now lay

obscured in dust. Their bright stars shine unseen,

while underneath the bleak unspangled night,

we bow before the power of our fright.

Lunar Apocalypse, 9/27/2015

After the dark day, I held you lightly.
Rage spent, we watched the moon grow bright again.
It had only been our shadow, and all the world's
sunrises and sunsets bleeding together
right along with us, and afterwards,
I'd never seen a midnight quite so clear.