Sometimes I Cannot
Always Be There – Marcus
If only I had the knowledge
or experience or energy,
I would see the glory of my son
in white robes and black stole
open his mouth in a wide O,
the sound of his voice blending
with other children’s voices all
filling this place with expectation:
A man can rise from the dead.
A virgin can conceive a son.
The worst thing in life is not
death, but life without belief
that life can be better.
After tricks or treats comes All Saints.
After the candy comes communion.
After the costumes come new robes
all the same for all of them who sing.
All Saints’ Day – Connie
Wanek
It happens that the world has run out of patience.
Sleet coats a smashed pumpkin,
and the wraith hanging in an immature maple
must be lowered, washed and dried, and spread
again across the child’s bed.
A north wind strips the popple of its costume, and
flagellates
its bare limbs. The
hills wear coarse gray, for penance,
before they’re cowled in white.
And all the candy energy abroad last night,
the candle flame that lit up a malicious grin,
the brass of car horns,
the pillowcases bulging with extorted chocolates—
all is surrendered.
The soul is a cold cell in November,
with one supernal window
admitting a wan light accessible only to those
who have given up the ghost.
Listen. A poem for
All Saints’ Day – by Wendell Berry
Whatever is foreseen in joy
Must be lived out from day to day.
Vision held open in the dark
By our ten thousand days of work.
Harvest will fill the barn; for that
The hand must ache, the face must sweat.
And yet no leaf or grain is filled
By work of ours; the field is tilled
And left to grace.
That we may reap,
Great work is done while we’re asleep.
When we work well, a Sabbath mood
Rests on our day, and finds it good.
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