only stones and scruff holding no hints of great winters,
not even wet tongues to swallow little snowfall.
Dirty hands claw at orange soil, nothing but weeds to give.
A miracle, even more than slaving until Heaven, is a gift
never asked for but given.
The secret is never to keep it to yourself.
Roots erupt from unfrozen earth, among bugs,
echoes of choir choruses.
Hope the dead don’t rise as easily as earth’s spit and salt sinks.
It’s all good given, weeds from where grandfathers fell into soil,
giving only what grows from dark heads
who knew love should flow like whiskey off hands.
God’s birthplace of hay should reject refuse, accept only kings,
but it desires blood in snow, what runs between
high mountains and low seas.
Morning’s weeping crosses
bless corners of each church step as field weeds bleed
and wrinkled petals in pockets shade to blood.