New

Racing thoughts at the communion rail this morning, on Easter Sunday, produced this poem tonight. It took me roughly 15 minutes to write.

Dirty hands and dead seeds.

A sprout pushes skyward

A shoot, a bud, a flower, life.

Blossom from the womb of womankind

The cry of pain at the moment

Of entering Planet Earth.

Glistening tear on the cheek

Of she who bore this babe.

Choked laughter as she reaches

Out for her tiny beloved

For the first time.

Tiny hands that would one day

Write manuscripts that would become

Ancient in the hands of the old,

Yet printed freshly for millions

Of young ones eager to learn.

Bright, youthful eyes

Hungry for the old that is new still to them

Words containing stories

Story after story after story

Of a single kiss that was new every day

Upon petal lips that grow dry and wither

But in the morning are kissed again

For the very first time.

Lips that shimmer with the glistening tears

That have fallen from relief.

Once dry and parched like a tomb

Now pink and moist like a baby’s cheek

Or a blossoming flower

And new

Newer, newer, newer, daily

Like ancient new texts

And a savior that lives,

Having been killed.

God bless.