Creche: Tenth Day

So much depends on the skywater, fights, fowl, flora
The liquid sunshine falling on Turtle Island.
The two inches of topsoil in-between,
that sustains us all.

The salt from mother Mary we taste on our lips as children,
becomes the salt of the brow from father Joseph,
becomes the bread of our own beginnings.
The salt off the backs of the Magi shedding from miles of heavy joy
becomes the incense of journey,
the myrrh of ending,
the gold of beginning again buried deep in the basement of the earth.
Passing ‘round, again and again.

When the pipes burst we were lucky to have friends and neighbors
The donkey quietly reminded us,
with smiling eyes, just next door.
Nothing is lost in our passing that can’t be found again by kin. We are all kin.