First

your

brother

Lazarus,

then you, bursting from

your alabaster tomb, poured out

your unbound glory

at the feet

that bring

good

news.

What

is
language

for? Why do

our groans and grunts and

squealings coalesce into words?

Gathering like snowballs, the phrases tumble faster
faster down the steep slopes of mind,
melting in the end,
 to form slow
rivers
we
share.

The

sign

will be

your silence,

and her song unleashed,

pouring out when the Spirit comes.

Hear the little Galilean sing; the poor are filled,

the lofty emptied. Now you must

deny your name, scratch

out the words:

his name

is

John.

The sibyl with her leaves of maddening verse,
Enchanted by her captivating curse;
Nor she nor I can say which one is worse:
    the silentness of sight
    or wind of words.

Cassandra sits with her among the leaves,
And Ariadne, weeping as she weaves;
Their sisterhood, this common curse of Eve's:
    the silentness of sight
    and wind of words.

Mother of God, whose face is ever bent
Toward thy Son's tree, assist me to repent,
That I may walk the way in which you went,
    who held in silent night
    both Wind and Word.

Woman's Work

Some things, like space, with all its sundry duties,
come with every human's territory,
and for a few, who grace their space with beauties
sweet, serene, the home's a field of glory.
I am human, too, and tread on floors
which must be swept to clear a space to think.
We all do all, but each from different cores
of strength from which to work; mine's not the sink
or vacuum. Eve herself did not at first
have clothes to wash; I do because she shares
as help meet in the woes with which man's cursed.
But these are human, not just female cares.
    We each must have our own ill-fitting labor,
    as well as strengths with which to help our neighbor.

To

glimpse

the thoughts

that formed God's

works so wise, to wrap

your mind around the thing that stands

sure and certain, ancient patterned plans; to  know beauty

of earth and skies, spiraling out from the still center, first you must dance with the quick-bright

ever-moving images, and learn to learn from their

learning, lean on their leaning on

you; in that image,

see the sight

of Him

who 

sees.

Apology

I was very good at saying sorry,
but I always knew that good was not enough.
Over and over, I'm sorry, I'm sorry for
never enough, never sorry enough, and plus,
all these annoying apologies: I'm sorry
for them as well. It was never enough. I wrapped
myself in comfortingly righteous rags;
no hope for enough, but at least it might be more.

No more. I have heard the creaking of stones, and the voice
from the cleft of the rock, felt the steady rhythmic whoosh
of blood again. The time has come to fold
the swaddling graveclothes neatly in the cave.
My righteousness was shit. True holiness
was pulsing through the mercy I once scorned.