striking a match

May morning

is it just the way things are
that anything
transcendent
requires something

dark before

dawn opens over the night’s ridge, golden, glorious,
as birdsong swells with color and light
lilting across dancing water

her death required my small death
a burying of things held
oh so tightly
it was hard to peel my fingers back
to release them

I lean against the dark stone
and wait for the angel
to strike a match

remember

brush canvas close up colors

Photo by 祝 鹤槐 on Pexels.com

the ambiguity of stain
a scarlet thread finds its way
onto a bleached white linen
marring its perfection

maunday, a mandate, a command
over dinner
eat this, drink this

I remember the little saltless pillows of cracker
and the fascination of tiny cups of grape juice
take this and remember
Do This in Remembrance of Me
carved in the wooden altar
where the men in somber suits
brought the bright silver trays
to rest

red wine
on white linen
I reach for your glass

ask

flame

I watch the flames
consume the historic cathedral
and wander thru the sanctuaries
of all those churches in my past,
the color of the walls, the velvet cushions,
worn wooden pews,
the cross or crucifix or
baptism pool behind the Madonna blue curtain.

Jesus walked into the room
and in his fury, turned the tables.

He cursed the fig tree til it withered,
fruitless.

Its fruitless.

The spire falls, its cross held high till
consumed in destruction and purifying flame.

He foresaw the destruction of the temple,
David’s temple, Soloman’s temple,
the jewel of the faith.

A reckoning is coming in this Holy Week
Good Friday looms in the shadow
I don’t know what any of this means.

I just ask for mercy

I just ask for faith

I just ask