The Way to Galilee

But after I am raised up, I will go before you to Galilee.
Mark 14:28

Through stained glass we learned
to picture the path to the cross—
our imaginations organized the
familiar details till the worn road
was more memory than image.

We know those steps like our own.
We recognize echoes hospital gowns—
emaciated and gaunt.

We know the way to Golgotha:
death defeats life.
But what of the unseen steps?

Those first foreign footfalls from an empty tomb:
did the disfigured feet limp slow,
reacquainting themselves with his weight, or
did they lift him lightly from the grave
moving out nimble and quick?

What new paths did dawn find
that first pioneer wandering?

Autumn and Basement Living

Inflatable mattress amidst hills of clutter:
half-read books, twice worn
shirts waiting for laundry,
miscellaneous outdoor gear.

Energy leaks out slow,
dank thoughts seep in:
broken appliances ignored
by distant landlords never seen
seldom heard from, I have no skills or tools;
hope of quick repair fades.

Sun goes down earlier each day,
leaves collect in gutters, mold waits
patiently outside the door.

Crisp air brings football,
pumpkin ales, and thanksgiving.
Late afternoon, sprawled
amongst mess and errands,
I weigh these things.

Lake Louise 1990

[Happy birthday Bec!]

We sneak ahead and wait behind
signs dug out from snow banks.
Listen close. Footsteps crunch through
old snow. Munition perfectly packed,
molded to mittened hands. We bite our lips
to keep from giggling and giving away our position.

Prey passes unaware, we emerge,
aim carefully at a black-wool coat,
then let loose the dogs of war.

My sister yells “look Jake,
a white-backed mommy!”
and we sprint off into the deep,
where heavier legs labor to follow.