DiaBLOGue

I was expecting ripened avocadoes, Michael, 
or half-used spices—the usual throwaways before
a move. Not a grocery bag of garments, unopened,
each slippery package a skin you never tied on.

On the third day he stopped for a deserved rest,
though not intentionally. The bishop, she explained,
was hunting pheasants and wouldn’t be back
for hours. So he collapsed into a straw bed 

Signs in the heavens. Great arcs of light
at midday. Drew it. Intend 
to ask Joseph what it means … 

That snow falling out there, not in flakes 
But in clusters of flake, little snow balls 
Loosened by November’s sun still barely struggling
Through the harvest haze, snow falling 

So I went to Cana and spent Sabbath 
in that house, their guest, before the wedding.
The daughter spoke with joy of her marriage;
the mother sat impatient—Sabbath’s end