Inside the dying die with the state of
their souls on frozen faces.* And the living
lie with their feet in the air.

Outside the clouds are gray,
the brownish grass looks lifeless
and barren, not like the beach,
where the churning sea pounds
an innocent shore, where both land
and water are teeming with life.

I know people whose boats are tossed,
who tumble the furling ocean waves,
where the sun fails to grace the darkness.

But far and away in dusk’s purple tint,
where forlorn quail break a similar silence,
a lone deer enters the thicket.
Near the ruins of a burned-out cabin,
one purple crocus continues to grow.
Is this where my prayer should begin—

about how the rough sea might be calmed,
each tiny skiff moored, the dawn shine
in orange rays, the light fall onto those who still float,
and onto the deer and the quail and the cabin?
We need blessing and healing and love,
understanding and forgiveness, absolution.

But what good is confession, if it does not
thaw the heaven-bound, apply dentistry, teeth
being integral to the face?”**

I believe in heaven, with each new body,
even the grimace of pain will vanish,
make us like water, not like ice.

**

* Thanks to Father Joe and his Tattered Journal

** Thanks to Jilly Dybka (scroll to bottom of entry)