Saint Patrick prayed, “Christ, protect me today
Against every poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against death-wound,” finding
Jesus behind him, Jesus within him,
Beneath, above, right, left, before, with, by,
And I wonder why this bit of truth is
Buried in context of shamrocks, green beer,
Cabbage, corned beef, Guinness, and potatoes.
But torrid mid-March is also longing,
The throes of Lent, writhing in Christless dark,
Silent, waiting for a break in routine
Between ashes and tombs and quarantine.
Is it only the dead, voiceless prophets
Who now behold wonders and rest from fear?
Image: Wakerobins, Hamilton County, Tenn., March 2020.
Your maxims are proverbs of ashes.
Not the cleansing of bull’s ashes,
But the trampling of wisdom
Under unholy feet.
Sackcloth and ashes
Are your reward;
You earned it,
Ashes and dust.
Dust you are and to dust
You will return, so be kind to
Woe to him who despises ashes;
Roses need potassium chloride to bloom.
If dust’s maker made himself dust,
Then dust in glory is noble and just.
Surely resurrection and life
Presuppose death and strife.
Start by observing the residue of childhood. Note the rotting oak leaves on last year’s toys, plastics long since dissuaded from their original color by ultraviolet rays. Recall how they emerged, shining hydrogenated petroleum, the last gasp of some grasping raptor. Marvel as casual conspiracy between a forgetful toddler and her neighborhood star undoes industrial complexity. Brace yourself as this year’s toys arrive in waves. Strategically maneuver around school crafts and children’s church presents. Have UPS kill off a few extra dinosaurs, for good measure, to ship the good intentions of far-flung relatives or even your own nagging guilt. Sweep up litter. Weep over glitter. Whisper a litany for global trade and the Pacific garbage patch. Tidy up as though it is a game of chicken with the universe. Be careful what you cast out—thoughts count, and twaddle is freighted with love. Try not to stuff souls past and present into stockings. Calculate the cycle of ashes and dust looping from eternity past to Christmas morning to landfill. Measure the relative proximity of Bethlehem to your living room. Factor in the arc of the great circle. Set a stopwatch for the distance in time, a route growing longer with each revolution. Feel the warping of the continuum as the accretion of candles and carols and traditions makes mangers manageable. When you have swept the last artificial fir needle and loaded the last dessert spoon into a groaning dishwasher, don’t rest. Embrace the life you’re tasked with living. Meditate on your insignificance and significance. Look, look in the mirror at your own demise and resurrection. Think dead men’s thoughts after them.
For the time being
Seven demons scour earth
For a spotless room.
Image: My backyard, October 2019.
Was it for nothing that the blueberry
In the backyard,
Its fruit consumed,
Its year’s growth pruned,
Caught fire one morning?
I took off my shoes, there in the kitchen,
Beholding it aflame.
Is this newfound bioluminescence?
Can a shrub throb with photons
As surely as neon waves,
Plankton, a lampshade jelly,
The lure of a dragonfish,
Alive with luciferin like foxfire
That startles campers awake?
All life must glow, as dewdrops on a fern,
The shimmer of scales
On a fritillary wing,
Mucosal sheen of a passing slug.
If the paper-skin of the deceased
Can be translucent, then a blueberry
Bush may burn yet not be consumed.
Light is not light unless compared to dark,
And so my squinting
At the world, charged as it is,
Is for the dullness of my soul.
What sparkles through the glass
So dimly may be glory, or it may
Be the devil, crouching at the door.
Image: Blueberry bush, my backyard, November 2018.