I grab the pots off the shelf in the Walmart. It’s time to start the garden even while the snow pack is three feet thick. Ice has made the ground as hard as my heart. Will I admit, as I shovel the Miracle-Grow left over from last year, that I am angry at the world?
Walking From Winter
A reality repeats
Like a season’s turn.
I place the seeds of life, three in one: three tomato…three pepper.. three cucumber in a rhythm that reminds me like the repeated infiltration of a knife to the heart….To the heart those raping winds still blow. “Beware the Ides of March”.
Surviving the storms
I walk away from winter
No longer in it.
As the garden sprouts on my window sill, I have to admit embracing life is better than lamenting its pain, its fear, its heartache. For all that, there is beauty too. That is worth more than all this trouble I have given myself by letting in a worthless winter of discontent.
My God, My God?… We, Called Out, wrapped in red, white and blue Why have you forsaken?… We plunge from a precipice into the orange sun. His waves burn. Amber grain, Why are you so far away?… We are upside down Icarus. So few remember the story now that liturgy has been Pushed aside. Everyday I call… A juggernaut breaks down three houses. Every night I lift my voice… The fourth estate is Poisoned. Is this the One who relies on the Lord?… Icarus tumbles. It is better than good. We crash. We die on that Solid Rock. Let the Lord save him… The Juggernaut comes at The Rock…The Rock that crushes….the Rock that cannot be moved.
I am jumping timelines in a tuna can: Boston to New York, New York to Seoul, Seoul to Manila, Manila to Ilo Ilo.
“What day is it?” I ask for days.
I am tomorrow’s yesterday even though today is the day I live in all the time. I feel bigger on the inside than on the outside and there’s no room even to pray as the seasons pass away along with my schedule and my knowledge of routine. What am I supposed to do?
Now the cold returns.
Sharp intake of frigid air.
New England winter.
I return to yesterday in a sardine can: Ilo Ilo to Manila, Manila to Seoul, Seoul to Boston.
“Why am I going back?” I ask.
I am fatter from the salt I ate in tomorrow. The worst is yet to come. In yesterday day is night and night is day and for days upon days I wrestle to sleep. Even now, week’s out, I wake up and forget when I am. Somehow in the third Heaven that seems OK. What am I supposed to do?