Perhaps among the lupines
and mustard flowers,
grown from faith small,
yet enough
for the red-winged blackbirds
and sparrows to crown,
I will see you again—
And see a table made
of grass, a meal of those fish
you caught at the lake’s shore.
Perhaps I will taste the brine
of their flesh, the salt that was
with us in the beginning,
when the world was the sea,
when the alpha and omega
were diatoms.
My blood was in that sea,
and yours, too.
I shall know this world
is ever yours,
That even as men cause
the seas to rise,
or rain fire in the name
of innocents,
with you, I can sit at your
feet, and feel the troubled
waters of my body
still, the pulse become
a sleeping cat, no need
to hunt or leap,
at rest in this field of yours.
Holy Thursday
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