We can never be with loss too long.
Behind the warped door that sticks,
the wood thrush calls to the monks,
pausing upon the stone crucifix,
singing: “I am marvelous alone!”
Thrash, thrash goes the hayfield:
rows of marrow and bone undone.
The horizon’s flashing fastens tight,
sealing the blue hills with vermilion.
Moss dyes a squirrel’s skull green.
The cemetery expands its borders—
little milky crosses grow like teeth.
How kind time is, altering space
so nothing stays wrong; and light,
more new light, always arrives.
Spencer Reece, At Thomas Merton’s Grave
One thought on “crucifix”
how true, bless you, superb poetic expressions.
glad to meet.
inviting you to join poets rally today, submit a free verse or a poem of your choice, make poetic friends, and get recognized by your peers when you participate two or three rally weeks in a row.
hope to see you in.