The word sighs across my tongue
with the weight and heft of summer air
humid and still
when you are smothered in long sleeves
long pants and gloves
to pick the berries from the brambles,
the hot sweet smell rising up,
picking the tomatoes, beans, peppers, squash
the dust drifting in of the wheat being harvested
the corn tall, ears full and ripe.
We go to silver, but He goes to gold when it’s time,
not an ending but a transformation
to pour Him out golden into the mill
to scoop Him ground fine out of the bin,
the dough moves under my hands
slippery with oil,
like a lover’s flesh.
we know in the end it all dies
It all passes,
every breath a fork in the road,
small and great.
I look out into the golden light of summer evenings
and cherish the drone of the cicada,
the song of the crickets in the corn
the laughter of children playing,
this too shall pass.
Tonight is the time to cry,
to let out a little of the pain
the sharp despairing pain
of knowing that
whatever you choose
it’s going to hurt
everything’s going to change
and even if it’s right,
even if it’s noble,
even if it’s love personified
when He dies
in the cornfields
the rocky desert a world away
the dirty streets too close to home
still we find the tears falling
while we’re cleaning the sickle
and sitting down to dinner.
May the body of our Lord
Bring health to our bodies
and life to our souls.