[This year, again, I've committed to writing a poem each evening during Holy Week. Here's the first, Monday's poem.]
Forgetting, I worry about finding enough money
And paying this month's bills and
Sealing the chipped deck before rain ruins it.
And winning the crowd with insight and
Proving myself irreplaceable here, now.
Forgetting, I miss the far-away barking of sea lions
And the little chime ringing just beyond my door and
These billions stars like God's blanket on my night.
Somewhere in the sacrament of all this,
You whisper, you sing, you offer me this:
Remember, remember, remember.
The rolling of day into night is holy.
The story of sadness, then joy, is holy.
The little piece of bread, left on my plate, is holy.
Jesus of the Stars, Jesus of the Scraps,
Forgive my forgetting.
Too much worry in this.
Too much frenzy in this.
Teach me to remember.
To let night be night.
To let grief be grief.
To watch for the rising sun
With eyes of tears
And hands turned up