Thistles mock all, growing . . .in a heap of broken glass with last year’s soot.—Genevieve Taggard, “American Farm, 1934” In the moments after she

No one to place the potted liliesin a semicircle, fragranttrumpets raisedaround the pulpit. The piano’s teeth delicatelystill; guitars lean their long necksinto resting stands.

“Here’s a truth, friends,”He said before leaving:“Anyone with faithwill do greater thingsthan these when I goto the Father.” Hyperbole. It had to be.Greater things thanwater

A sudden itch for woodcraft, Ihead for the garage, take twobead-board doors from a dustystack of kitchen-cupboard pieces rescued from a garage sale,the old spruce

I drive into the plains when the moon is full. I find a dirt road.There is a pasture gate with a turn-off where I stop.

And he took the fire in his hands and the knife–Genesis 22:6 The beasts walk single file, saying hallelujah, eating bones. The woodsmen with their

Ages ago I left a small town lifesearching for something I lost wanderingin confining predictability.Big city answers filled my small town soul. Glutted with certainties

The world spins and staggersWe grab the side hold the mastHoping this storm is not all we will ever beTime’s torrents toss us wavewardAs skies

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