Compassion

It does not

Reach down

And dole itself out

From a distance

It walks in

And sits close

And refuses to look away

It is not nice

It is not safe

When it invites me

To put my hand

In its side

And dash my foot

On its rocks

I am afraid

Its movement

Is the labor

Of the eternal Mother

Who pushes

And tears

The veil

Between

self

and

other

March Grass

There is a terrible tenderness in March grass

In the bare and the grey

In the defeated way

It lays flat

After the weight

Of snow

I walk gingerly

Around it

Stay on the asphalt

But still

I feel its dryness in

The cracks in my hands

And the lines around my eyes

And I know

It’s a sign

That I should sit

On the fencepost

And stay

But instead I deny it—

Three times—

And walk away

Good Friday on the Little Spokane

The deer, their coats matted and brown,
will not stay.
They risk the road instead.
The turkey turns his back,
is deliberate,
spreads his feathers.
The river pushes past,
smug with forward motion.
Its grasses press down,
stay low,
feign indifference.
The meadow
is heavy
with still water,
winter’s unwanted remains.
She assents.
She contains.

Good Friday, Still

image from wikimedia commons

So much is made
of the letting go
and the holding on
is dismissed
as dysfunctional
But
there comes a time
when to Love
is to hold on
to the splintering Wood
with all your might
and to bow down
and embrace
the wounding night