Wherever orange and ochre ditch-lillies Cradle a rural highway’s curve or the Summersweet goodness of black raspberries Calls out from an overgrown, vacant lot, Recall an abundant God who delights In the mysterious placement of gifts To slake the thirst of withered, weary souls.
In the chirps of bluebird hatchlings crying For their food from within a trashcan nest, In every kind and holy word spoken Amid hurried striving for peace and rest, In unsought, unbought graces coursing through The veins of the world, receive the oracle— Witness that there are no cosmic orphans.
I’ve a new business to start this week, My wife has a pain in her heel, My son’s wagon needs a new wheel, My daughter’s got an aching tooth, Our horse is limping on one hoof. With all this and more weighing us down, We are going to worship the emperor today.
The ox tripped and broke a horn; A cart full of grapes in the ditch. The rains didn’t come through this year; The wheat dried up without much crop. The rabbits ate half my turnips, And the foxes aren’t too hungry, so We are going to worship the emperor today.
They say that Rome is thriving, That the frontiers are expanding, That denarii go up daily, That the colosseum is full, That the rebels in Judea, Had their temple duly razed. That’s why We are going to worship the emperor today
Incense doesn’t cost all that much, And it smells pretty good most days, But I’m beginning to wonder How much good it does anyway. The emperor’s not too stable, Or well, the old gods seemed nicer, but We are going to worship the emperor today.
The fire was a long time back, And Nero’s died in the meantime. Old Vespy keeps his fiddle tuned, So as to dull the people’s cry. My friend got crucified Tuesday, But as for me and my house, you see, We are going to worship the emperor today.
Image courtesy of Classical Numismatic Group, CC BY-SA 3.0
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.
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.