Monthly Archives: January 2011

the child he sent me,the blessing,
burned in my arms.
I could not,
I would not.
Let him go.
But the pain was almost more.
Than I could bear.
The gift the angel gave me.
Pressed into the softness of my heart.
And ate away my softness.

The cupwas a molded bit of earth.
The touch of his fingers blessed it.
The blood of the grape broken,
offered and eaten,
filled it.

At the table,

in the dark, we sipped

its sweetness touched with bitter taste.
It warmed our center,
burning.

The bread,
joined in loaf
formed by His holy fingers,
was rough in our mouth,
filling us.

A stranger to my people

and to my God.

A root in dark soil,

a hungry thread sent

into the heart of Persia,

to a king broken

by stubborn Greeks

at the gates of fire.

I was sent to him

to draw life

to a mountain top

in a dry and thirsty land

to bud in Bethlehem.

Like him, I scattered coins
on the temple floor.
Like him, I found my tree.
I took the bread from his hand,
but would not drink from his vine.
No cock crowed for me,
no sobs tore my heart to pieces
in the arms of a risen lover.

He knelt,
the old man,
cutting the vine
with his knife
until it bled,
clear and wet,
running like water,
giving it fruit.

He drained its blood
with his gnarled fingers
to give it strength and sweetness,
cutting away the tangle,
leaving a bent and cripple knot,
breathing life
into the fruit.

After the fruit,
I could not see her
for the flesh between.
No matter how I stretched my mind
I could not know more
than what I saw,
twisting truth to fit
the twisting of my mind.
I could not see beyond
the vines
that held my heart.