You, pod of the poorthe famished, the saintly, the destitute—of those besieged and those diseasedof St. John in his itchy wrap of hide andfur, wild-haired

Did you give a nameto your longing?Did you set out knowing what you’d buywith your bindle full of gold?Was it the blinking women, the sweeter

I clamber up the brick wall.Fingers sink into the cracks of caulkuntil my hands reach leaded frames of glass.Stretching myself across the puzzle piecesof bright

And the angel said unto thee, Go thouinto your garden and plant Creeping Jenny, alyssum, Sweet Woodruff to crawl acrossthe earth, and herbs to bring

How had he known to callscarlet tanagers scarlet or indigo buntingsindigo? Yet the wordswere so fitting he saw when he sketchedthe bow he’d witnessed after

The only waywewill bethe same at the lastwill be to go homeand sleep. We must notmake the maquette.

Holy Spirit guide herthrough her wilderness.She is a travelermomentarily lost on thisjourney. Fill her soul withkindness. Let her knowlove’s security. Give herpeaceful dreams and quietrest.

The explosive flutter of quail taking flight;the plastic twist of hummingbird gossip;the frantic grate of a hummingbird warningto a trespassing blue jay. The sharp pain

“When you are between your old comfort zone and any possible new answer … the sacred space where the old world is able to fall