This New Covenant

Jesus dressed my poor angel 
in unattended weeds

and thus the lowest ebb 

of perverse suspicion 

flooded the summer 

and thus we fell

among cryptic texts

unanswered calls

and nights turning 

into suspicious morning 

routines of angry gardening

together tearing 

at the hearty stalks 

and thus the bed 

became cold in absentia 

and rich with fingers 

and thus a thin fire culled our lives 

vigorously, almost professionally 

so therefore Jesus spoke

a new wood, sending me 

a preserver, a new soil 

my impoverished angel 

tossing seed, so I could eat alone 

be punishingly alive

tending to a new shoot

Friday Writings #240: Despair and Delight