True Wood
Pears thunk and plop on
barren, yellow grass
alone, not-gathered.
The tree bore fruit
but there is no one
to eat of it.
is it still a tree?
Upraised branches,
so much verdant waterspray
towards the sky,
still and soft against
the blue--
but no one to see.
is it still a tree?
Oaken limbs, worn with carrying children
to and fro, pumping, playing
jumping, but no one to
hear the joy in the swing.
is it still a tree?
Carpenter fashions these
woodly beams,
rough-hewn
splinter-worthy
dangerous to the flesh,
carried for miles
to the top of a hill-
everyone sees-
It was a tree.
Recipe for Awakening
Stir together singular,
disparate syllables.
Salt tears. Dry yeast.
Mix with water (no blood yet)
but sweat. And all those tears.
Beat, not with a spoon--convex
form no match for the fear held
in its hand--but carefully stir
the sifted self, Savior, kneaded
on a board until the dough
pulls away.
Cover loosely with cloth,
place in a battered space
until deliverance is complete.
Let rise.
Form into one life,
resurrected.1
Wonderful poems! I need to read them again, slowly and aloud.
Oh my goodness--what a glorious metaphor between bread-in-process and salvation-in-process. WELL DONE, Jody. Let rise indeed--He IS risen!