| Red
The plum orchard is naked,
a blank canvas awaiting
a new paint
job
in pink, red and green.
The potted geraniums’ two
red
blossoms groom the window sill,
showing off their four
seasons.
Snow is falling.
Teardrops fill the pane
like a crying
baby.
A red ball flutters,
swirls in the snowy currents,
twisting
and turning, blind
as a censer.
It lands on the window ledge --
a
red cardinal!
He peeks in, studies the view
up-down-left-right,
makes
a sign of the cross with his head.
He takes off like a
missile.
He flies back, sways
and swaggers toward the window.
He
centers the window
like a compass,
targets the bullseye.
The
cardinal flutters
his wings, spread wide
with great speed
the holy
ghost ignites a fire.
The red cardinal dives
at the window, drops to the
ground.
A bier of crystal beads.
This cardinal will never
enter
the Vatican.
-- Maggie Powers
Athens, Ga.
Advent
A coming occurred:
Baby Jesus crashed through
his 100-watt
manger
and careened around the corner.
“There he goes,” they
cried.
It was easy to follow: the thud
of his boots,
bound after
bound,
resounded on the concrete.
They ran, but he outran them.
“B.J.,” they cried.
“B.J., come back.
You can’t just
leave.”
With one last whoop and holler
he disappeared into an
alley
just past the No U-Turn sign.
They fell behind, panting,
and
returned to the manger.
“What else can you expect
from a guy like
that?”
they muttered into their collars.
Later, far away
from where electric blankets
went full blast,
the low sobs,
which for
some time had been
punctuating the nights,
stopped.
-- Muriel T. Stackley
Kansas City, Kan.
|
My New Telescope
Presence of the dead
this morning
is more palpable
than
usual.
When I heard
that my friend Vance
had died after
his long
and valiant
struggle, my first
impulse was to take
my new
telescope
into the yard
and look for him
among the nearest stars.
-- David Ray
Tucson, Ariz.
Good News
Another morning!
How to explain
the frosted trees
in the
silent
rain-swept morning?
When the hundred
birds of my
heart
flutter away out
the open window
into the scent
left
hanging
on soulful pine
branches --
there is my home.
Walking
beneath them,
I dare not look down.
-- Shannon E. Brewer
South Bend, Ind.
Communion Song
for Hildegard of Bingen
We are sunrise, sunset colors
from skin
shedding into a million
particles.
We are tides
touched by the moon.
We are
planets
weaving a webbed path called atoms.
We are fire and
ice
our passion jungle
our indifference arctic.
We are
water
flowing with our memories.
We are birds
longing for the
radiant air.
We are plants
breathing, opening to light.
We are
rock
until we crumble into dust.
We are life
if we but knew.
-- Sr. Lou Ella Hickman
Corpus Christi, Texas
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