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.
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.