after the end

it is finished. what’s
the use of words now, Jesus?
silently, tears fall.

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thorn

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

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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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