Some of those whose blogs I read are still on Xanga and here, so every so often I'll log onto Xanga to copy a post from the 'main' blog; Blogger has gotten left out so many times.
I'm happily in seminary. Despite my general aversion to writing in the last year or so, the 'Francis de Sales' part of me (i.e. confirmation name and patron) and my schoolwork - getting those thoughts pumping - have been prevailing. Here's something I jotted last night, part of a slowly accruing pile of poems I hope to set mosaic-style in a collection regarding time, seasons, distraction vs. sacrament, vanity vs. meaning/purpose; this piece will be something like the introduction, I think.
In this bed you laid me, my love, in your perfect garden
between your peas and dry petunias; here, you have laid me gently
to the bottom and so forgotten me. Snow springs, and the roots harden
and proceed; barks shiver down to tubers, and your garden parties
remind you of the autumn before the last spring
and what those silly blackbirds should have been singing.
Not long ago you laid a soul nearby, who from here
I hear was much my better; here, we shall have years to ponder
how many souls lie at our feet or heads in these cold mornings,
not among ourselves but to ourselves, only listening.
Under here, I sometimes hear a woman wailing
and awake to mourners of those forsaking houses, weeping,
who are often paid not least at the garden parties
to preen their hair in their songs of startings.
In this tomb you laid me here, my love, in the garden.
Daylight dwindles in these cold leaves, ever in this snow season,
with the weepers seeking to make a something of each good intending.
We who die here may arise here, but blooming
seasons later for the orphans you're begetting.