A year of catechism lessons to distill My eight-year-old soul for God, Had led to so much anticipation for the moon- Like wafers that would magically transubstantiate. The array: an illustrated children’s missal With gilded edges; a silver rosary; Lace gloves; satin pouch; gold chalice pin; A tiara of blossoms and a poofy silk
Leaving We are so much like the trees. We mistake their stasis for imprisonment. Our mobility for freedom. But we too are deeply rooted. Bound in place. Conglomerates of electrons. Atoms spinning ghost-like Within the predetermined orbits Of our hearts’ metaphysics. On the door of my house There are no metal bars. Unlike the trees,
Panacea It’s snowing Over a Covid world. The snow is cleansing The air, weighing Each invisible culprit down. Each snowflake An antidote to fear. If only it could! Armies of microscopic Ice lattices, silencing Deadly viruses to the ground. Neutralizing their dangerous Spikes in layers of snowfall Where they could be titrated To innocuous, elemental