not the end.

it is finished. and
because He lives, that means
this is not the end.

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clean

i finally got my feet washed.
they were sore from a day
of running and standing still,
of impatience and veiled pride,
and i wondered, as i sat in the pew,
whether the one who washed them
would be able to smell the sweat
from my socks and shoes.

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dressed for spring

midway up the hill
the neighbor’s weeping fig
is dressed for spring
a gown of bridal white blossoms
shielding leafless branches.

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