The Flowering of the Cross

(or what comes after)

Not one but two deaths, to hammer 
home that we are but dust, as if
smearing ashes on the forehead just 
wasn’t enough. 

A memorial service, followed by
another vigil, sandwiched between
math tests, Latin vocab and
baking bread. 

Old stories heard fresh
reread and retold through 
a book of wild creatures –
A WIld Hope indeed.

A retreat, beautiful and sweet
teenagers, also beautiful 
but sometimes less than sweet and 
flowers from him, just because.

Holy Week: a chance to walk through
the passion, not avert my gaze.
Witness suffering, together with my church
feel the sorrow, grieve the losses, wait.

Waking that morning. the only morning, 
to feeble sunshine, 
rushing wind, baskets of candy
pastel eggs, a new day.

Church again, and the same wooden cross 
I touched then, was now
becoming something new
I had a part in creating.

We filed up, in groups and clumps
each of us bringing ourselves and a bit 
of beauty. We touched and were touched in the
Flowering of the Cross. 

This is the first in a series of poems/posts during the liturgical season of Eastertide, the 50 days after Easter and before Pentecost. Several years ago I wrote a series during Lent and this year I am endeavoring to respond to the movement of God during this time of fullness and celebration.

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