A Poem for Good Friday

Fish Fry at the Catholic School

The Dogwood trees seem resigned,
stationed like sentinels at the Middle School.
They blush faintly above the roof
line.  I admire their humility. (It’s not
their fault).  Twenty centuries later,
each pink bloom wears the marks
of passion.  Some ancestor’s wood
fashioned the cross on which He stood,
strung and hung like meat.  Dear
Man.   Son of God,
how they wept at Your bleeding feet.

Wind showers petal-tears
on clipped green grass
(no recess today).  Later,
believers will gather to eat
Your body, transformed, Transformer:
water, fire, This.

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