Behind the door

Every day my children, big as they are, still like to open a door on the little wooden Advent calendar and find a present inside. Here is a kind of door for you, with a present inside.

Originally published in Mezzo Cammin.
Included in the poetry collection, The Throne of Psyche (Mercer University Press, 2011)

 SNOW WHITE IN WILDWOOD

Certain things were given to me:                 

Such loveliness as swords possess,

Humility as hushed as snow,

Kindness branching red in my veins,

The love of wildwood animals.

I learned early I was a fool                          

And worthless. Still, I dare to lodge

Certain protests against brokenness,

Certain protests against heart’s maiming,

Certain protests against death’s hour.

The mirror made such promises!

Was it godly, was it devilish?

A scabbard waiting to be filled,

The seven little fairy men,

A face like snow that sleeps in glass.

Not one of them came true, and now

I kneel forsaken on the ground,

In turn reproaching Christ and men,

So close to perishing that I

Dream lanterns and my mother’s face.

The Kingdom of God is next to me.     

That’s what the holy father said.

It is closer.  Death is a seed

Gripped in my hand. I never thought

To know such wildwoods of despair.

What good has all my kindness done

That stood in the hall like a red branch?

What use was beauty’s melting snow?

Must I forgive this naked life

Of thorns, the sweat kissing my brow?