To Jesus on Easter By Vassar Miller

You see the universe, as I see daylight,

opening to your heart

like fingers of a little child uncurling.

It lies to you no more than wood to blade,

nor will you tell me lies.

Only fools or cowards lie. And you are neither.

Not that I comprehend You, who are simpler

than all our words about you,

and deeper. They drop around you like dead leaves.

Yet I can trust you. You resembling me—

two eyes, two hands, two feet,

fives senses and no more—will cup my being,

spilling toward nothingness, within your palm.

And when the last bridge breaks,

I shall walk on the bright span of your breath.

Was that You?

Was that you,

that gentle wind in the trees that sway,

the wind that cools the shadows

on a steamy summer day?

Was that your breath, a soothing message from you

that moves the grains of wheat.

The devil has breath too,

and when it comes it breaks

the tall trees in two,

it rips and rages, destroying the old,

makes nothing new.

Father, thank you for your breath

that relieves us from the summer heat.

From A Year of Prayers by Jack Bartlett

The Prodigal Clippings

Can angels experience regret?

I’m thinking specifically of the

fallen ones, the ones herded up

and driven over the edge of the

clouds because of their mutiny?

Do you think one or two or three

of them might’ve enjoyed it for

a season, because c’mon it is fun

for a while, but then missed the

comfort of foursquare and pearl?

I bet they were welcomed home

with feasting and singing but I

believe there was also a price of

return: the prodigal clippings.

But, you say, what about grace?

Well, I say, ask them, they know,

for they are the angels of mercy.

John Blase