Nothing is pure
that has not fallen.
Be an apple petal on a stream,
a pale seed
in the mother-brown furrow.
Be a spark of the iron hammer
on the lock of the prison door,
lamb's blood on the lintel,
the silent footstep
of a slave
escaping in haste at night.
If you cannot stay
for one hour,
stay for now
and be whole.
Nothing crushed
in these green shadows
can fail to rise.
Be the glut of a rain drop
on the mouth of a lily,
the starry wine that pours
into the small cups
of your own body.
Breathe Christ
through the broken places.
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