Paschal

Nothing is pure

that has not fallen.

Be an apple petal on a stream,

a pale seed

in the mother-brown furrow,

a spark of the iron hammer

on the lock of the prison door.

Be 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 one moment

and be whole.

Nothing crushed

in these green shadows

fails to rise.

Be the glut of a rain drop

on the mouth of a lily,

the starry wine that pours

into the hollow grail

of your own body.

Breathe Christ

through your broken places.