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We love to talk about the rain that makes a garden grow—dismiss the dung that drives it from below. We celebrate the sun in its sublime ability—forget the flies and fungus feeding this fertility. Wrinkle our eyes when we talk about flies. Turn away from decay.

If I could write a sonnet to help thee gather me in; it would embrace the noblest words—etched in fine detail— upon some passing stone.

If I am a garden, then he holds the hose Gives life to me and to all those that bloom Immerses me the water as John once did Tells me the hose won’t run dry

No head need I but Jesus Christ My Savior, Lord, and King For through His loving sacrifice Salvation He does bring He lives, my Savior of my soul He fills my soul with light He, the light of this great world Dispels the dark of night

Just and unjust step we onwards, wise men. Endless night around us and our chosen, Shifting course. Alone we face the frozen Umbra, sure we’re ever fallen again.

You ask me to come unto thee You ask to make my burdens light You ask me to place it all on your alter

All rise, the Eternal Judges enter God the Parents take Their throne I tremble, I kneel, I cry at Their Glory Their might and majesty beam I hide behind Christ’s robes

Lazarus lay in the grave, A long four days he slept. Martha, Mary, many kin, Around his bedside wept.

When I was a child, I thought I would be translated By 20… or latest 21. I mean, How hard could it be? That didn’t happen.

For months you felt mute, or rather, I did. Words that would pearl from my tongue to your ear would not come. I drifted in quarter consciousness like a raft on the sea—much deeper, more fathomless, than I knew it could be.

Because the path of sackcloth and ashes we travel leads to the eternal mountain of Ezekiel, Enoch, and Moses— where the holiest of holies sings with every figure of creation.

She breaks into screams as I crack the egg. All she has known is the whole, white, solid, smooth of a boiled oval. Now this liquid yolk looks like a lie. My daughter holds the handle of a measuring cup full of shelled peanuts.

I brim with words both beautiful and sweet. They stain my mind as the dust from far away Lands and sand have worn my weary feet. I have fought them. I have cringed and cried.

You spoke to me in song before I knew My fondest dream would also cause me pain. You lifted me through years of empty wombs With gentle whispers of, “Ye shall obtain.” I have two babies now, both miracles.

Lord, are you at the center?— that hub of surety, clarity, simplicity. Lord, are you at the margins?— those complex spaces, traced with grief, with rage, boiling over with grace.