Grave After

Wednesday of the Second Week of Easter

When white the morning rises,
Stars collapse the prison door,
Will I find myself entombed or
Chains dust the weeping floor?

Bleeding mystics’ ancient joy,
Pure ascent, lack of selfish ego,
Will my mirror reflect your gaze?
Will the garden bid me go?

Forever spring, life blooms at once
Weak tenderness and keeping,
Will I accept your crown of thorns,
Speak my joy in newness reaping?

Wandering

Tuesday of the Second Week of Easter
John 3:8
The wind blows wherever it pleases; you hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. That is how it is with all who are born of the Spirit.

Wandering was, to us, more than after-dinner exercise.
The truth is that we were carried between discoveries
Even if all we saw were granite quarries,
Moss-ridden and overhanging a still lake
In this part of the deep wood
As far as this urbanised garden would allow.
But there are days too when the dark
Veins of the leaf of a simple common tree
Stuns me that I misremember
Where I walked from and how I’m leaving
As if the shadows of this late night never truly mattered.