Every Colour

What is space were blue instead of black?

Would you still fear death?

And if the rotted leaves were shown to breathe,

The trees upon their oaky knees


In a blaze of splendour;

Settling into death, near-death, the nearest they

Can be to death.

The dearest thing to me is death

And black, in fact, is every colour


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There are moments I remember that even the schools of crickets are multitudinous, and that waiting for the rain makes the sun too bright. I discover new shapes every day: green ones, gold ones, secret


Conversations with Jesus on the front porch. So many worries. That's true, he says. Everything moving by things I can't see. But perhaps, he says, you can. And under it all? You'll remember, he says.


I haven’t asked him for his number because now I am known, now the I-I-I am afraid, now I am up there on the raggedy cross with Christ: no longer unimaginable (so a little breathless), no number, no d