for to us

and now stand we all upon the brink of mystery
for to us, the empty-handed, there has been a child born
uncreated, He has entered human history
life eternal, swaddled in the flesh that we have worn

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the light of dawn

the old man’s hunger had left his stomach hollow.
how am i to know this? he had asked the angel.
elizabeth’s womb lies barren; no seed
has ever taken root. and i am no better than a wizened stem.

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The magical mushrooms of Abbotsford

For some reason that I’ve never been able to explain, I absolutely love mushrooms … except when it comes to eating them. Then I’m very picky. But when it comes to finding them in the wild, I’m endlessly fascinated by the vast array of shapes, sizes and colors they come in, their intricate details, their growth habits, uses and dangers.

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o Love ever-burning

Who will lift the shroud of night
heaven’s light fresh to reveal
overcome death’s with’ring blight
deign our wounded hearts to heal?

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holy saturday

we planted the peas today
rolled their plump green bodies
into the black bacterial dust
gardeners call inoculant
and then tucked them one by one
under the soil

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good friday

today the warmth returned
and the blond-haired boys were
running wild through beds
of brittle hydrangea
and barren rose canes
when the littlest
still unsteady on his feet
caught his teddybear bib on a thorn

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maundy thursday

we’ve had a cold snap again
frost nipping the eager blooms
of the japanese magnolias
and kissing the bricks
that weight the blanket
stretched over the half-moon bed
of drowsing flowers

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