THE WORLD IS COMING
high and wide, in the vacant air . . .
straight through the four white walls of the real
until it no longer appears
different
from what the eye sees.
(Ronald Johnson, "Poem," Poetry, 120 (1972), p 144)
Monday, February 14, 2011
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
Unitarian Easter
Entering here, I hope the confetti
Can jazz up a burden
The pastor, for instance, calling birds, head back,
Or dancing an old French dance, hopping and kicking.
And now the congregation winds around the chancel,
Carrying damp, strapping forsythia sprigs, slanting them into a vase
Beside the kotoist, her song plucked and bent, a few blossoms raining on the strings.
God's weather today—sandals in puddles.
The moment of silence—raindrops on the roof, no comment
On the matter of God.
Can jazz up a burden
The pastor, for instance, calling birds, head back,
Or dancing an old French dance, hopping and kicking.
And now the congregation winds around the chancel,
Carrying damp, strapping forsythia sprigs, slanting them into a vase
Beside the kotoist, her song plucked and bent, a few blossoms raining on the strings.
God's weather today—sandals in puddles.
The moment of silence—raindrops on the roof, no comment
On the matter of God.
Sandra McPherson
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