Jane Greer

No one will say it, but we knowtoday’s fresh-flamed hibiscus flowerreveals in one brief, glorious showour birth, our life, our final hour. Sacrament and synecdochelive in a pot near the atrium door,mirroring holy brevitywhich, in a day, is evermore. —Jane Greer Image by R. D. Smith, . . . . Continue Reading »

Finches at all my feeders flash and bickerin ritual consternation and all weather,jangle at me with never-ending want,need me compliant but omnipotent.Within the nearby pine, push comes to shoveas the shrill chorus nags me, makes me leavethe cool deck and my chair and drink and bookto fetch seed . . . . Continue Reading »

Give me, I thought, a stand of tilted pinesguarding white water hurtling into mist.Give me a steep-cut torrent over stones,trout-bright, clear and fast. Or better, I wished, give me the reckless reachof a winter sea, heaved by moon and wind,salt-sweet mayhem roaring across a beach’sapron of . . . . Continue Reading »

The way the light of youfinds me through the hot,bright unnamable blue, that square of ancient glassin the high apse window,backlit at mid-day Mass: blue should not feel like burning,like a blazing lighthouse lamp,so here I am, learning this color like a childtoo young for words: this blueto seek . . . . Continue Reading »