In the midst of life this Sunday:
weightless snow, a silent sermon.
The naked tree gleams with bullfinches.
The only sound existing in the world
is the rustling of pecked-out seeds
plummeting down through the branches.
Today’s text is red smudges
brighter that the blood of Christ
and seed-husks falling slowly, slowly.
Death slows down its steps.
No murmuring yet among the clouds.
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