4-14 Ninth Hour

Perhaps the greatest paradox in history: God on a Roman cross. 2,017 years ago. This one I wrote years ago, self-explanatory. Ponder this love.

       Ninth Hour


Cherry blossoms burst with nova whiteness.

Green slivers jut from barren dogwoods.

A pounding mallet bruises my eardrums.



Rain pummels asphalt with dark splatter.

Muddy torrents wash earthworms down driveways.

My porch reeks of sweat and groaning.



A drenched robin huddles on her nest.

A gust blasts rain sideways,

howls through the grottoes of my heart.



A storm ridge veils the land.

Sirens and dogs wail through billows of thunder.

I bite an apple and see the worm at my core.



Lightning sears a pine’s spire,

splinters a birdhouse.

A scorched nest bounces to a hedge.



Willows pour cataracts.

A blackbird wades toward a floating bug.

I sponge spilt vinegar and squeeze drops into my eyes.



A yellow finch huddles on the birdbath.

My spirit is torn in two, top to bottom.

As blood and water soaks into the earth.