A hymn to mercy and love, “Love Calls Us to the Things of This World” springs to my lips when my heart is quiet. I teach it as often as I can for my introductory poetry students. 

Because this house is a dandelion gone to seed. Fragile and full of possibility.

Her laptop says Coffee and Jesus, so I fish the Bible from my backpack,

a goblet neither full nor empty, off balance there, like Humpty Dumpty

Take, eat my memory of the woods.

Hollywood would not photograph us for two or three more decades, they cut away