Spring
Last summer's kite got tangled in the tree,
deformed by knots and twigs, its brightness torn,
it sat forlorn and hidden in the leaves
who dropped in fall, and lo! It was reborn!
A garish blossom on the barest limb,
the winter wind its petals could not wound.
And louder than wind, it colored a hymn
against the gray sky: “Spring is coming soon!”
And come it did, in time for an old man
who's missed his mother nearly ninety years
to fly to her, just as the leaves began
unfurling round the kite. What are these tears?
Come, spring! Come, life! Come, rising sap and bud,
rejoicing as you open winter's tomb!
I know you'll not forget what now lies hid:
bright hope still singing, “Spring is coming soon!”
Transfiguration Psalm
Why are you changed, while I am mud and dust?
I thought you came here to be one of us.
Where, then, my light? Where is the awesome voice
that could name me “beloved” at its choice?
I grovel in the dirt; you float above
as if you won't be touched even for love.
This cloud descending—God! But it is cold!
And presses me face-down in muck and mold.
Is this your glory? Joy in dust's return?
Why bother, then, to make the poor dust yearn?
If you are one of us, reach out your hand
to touch my withered flesh and help me stand,
and leave the light, and bid the cloud be gone
to share our paltry stars of dusk and dawn
as those who trail not up Tabor but down
will share with you the lashes and the crown.
This vision makes no sense to one who dies,
so save it for the ones who wake and rise.
We still have so much suffering to get through;
do not suggest we do it without you.
Kate Bluett 