Written early April 2022; revised December 2024

I.

Why is April the cruelest month?

Why wrong to mix memory with desire?

Wrong only to one who has no remaining hope –

To whom birdsong brings no relief,

But mockery and lack of sleep

One who desires only dormancy of winter.

II.

Springtime can kill you, to be sure

A fling of madness,

Seeds sown froligate

Breed untrue.

Yet resist the toxins

That impel us –

Lashed to the mast,

Still breathe Spring’s fragrance –

Know self and calling,

Test dreams like spirits

Flowers of white

Are signs of safety.

Christ in the Garden –

Noli me tangere.

III.

My life is hidden yet I must live it,

Steward of Christ in the place of my exile.

He gave me these hands to rebuild His temple;

I beg of stones from the rubble of culture.

No more a heap of broken images –

No more just dry bones, called to yet live.

The Spirit is moving, yet I cannot see it

The dust motes refracting from glory to glory.

“O Lord Thou knowest”,

“Thou knowest I love You.”

IV.

The warmth of sunrise, breakfast by the sea –

A world returns to itself

Called by its Maker.

And do I hope to turn again?

Flown to the sun, now refined by fire.

Cross me with ash,

Show me my scope,

Bread for the journey

I walk with You.