At my door this morning is the slight tap of Jesus,
dressed in the form of a teenage girl who wants to give
me a church invitation into the glory of the current universe.
It is March and we have had such a weak, dry winter
that nobody has the heart to believe
or count on much of anything.
The drooping flowers near my front door sense
that spring is here with no rain, so who might come
The water department people in the concrete building
in town tell me I’ll be punished–
if I let too generous of a trickle tend the death
of flowers whimpering for my love.
I don’t know how long my visitor stands
beside the miserable flowers, the furling ferns
I admire, the crusty bird bath, before she
knocks a knuckle against the glass on my door.
One grass blade is lifting up between paving stones,
finding–from dewy mornings–all the moisture
needed to prosper. I think that short single life
is somewhat like the gospel.