At the desk loaded with books, a blind computer A gifted apple, a decaying swallow tail butterfly A photograph of a woman, standing behind A rain beaten glass, eyes closed to that dripping sound.

On Good Friday, two millennia after the celebrated passing, The clocks still continuing in their sequential crucifixion of seconds, Never stopping to pick up falling tears and never rising up The submerging memory, which continues to sink and recede

I pray in thanks, for a quarter century of existence, which was often alive An unhardened heart in spite of two lapsed loves, an unasked gift of words And friends, for spring renewing life from bare bark and thawed ground And songs that fill my bamboo soul like God’s flowers.