butter (good)

oh sister, bring out the butter (good)
and place it on the table there
then rest your bones
and welcome home;
for you we’ve always got a chair

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communion

one sunday morning i went to
a feast of wine and wafers
where the children of God knelt
in reverence and silently received
their meal from white-robed saints.

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the starlit night

lift up your eyes on high and see Who created these stars.
he whispered the promise’s opening like a prayer
as we gazed into the darkened skies.
he told me of the friend who, in patience,
spoke those words of wonder into the night
and how holy awe reopened his own eyes.

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(untitled)

mother eve, why did you hunger
there in the garden of all that was good?

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wind

all day long
the wind has been
scouring the trees;
now the lawn is thick
with bronzed leaves of oak,
tender yellow of maple,
wild red and orange
and byzantium of gum.

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thorn

in the poppy bed
there’s a stubborn weed
i never can seem to kill

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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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the only son (and his mother)

i read about a mother
who had an only son
cut down in his prime,
just north of 33.
she stood at his graveside
weeping, watering
the freshly-dug earth
with her tears, waiting.

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