Wood Anemone
. . . . .
OF SORROWS AND ACQUAINTED WITH
First Day
Forgive me, Father, for I
struggle. Did you have to make self
the first syllable of selflessness?
But truthfully, what soul
borne in bone and blood would welcome
this grinding? This heaviness? Like hell
they know not what they do. Even the stones
cry out for my surrender. Why?
Yesterday I walked through the garden
with my friends. They laughed.
Have you heard the one about the soldier,
the rabbi, and the carpenter?
Anyone who’s not depressed
just doesn’t really know what’s going on.
Why resist? There is an hour at the end
of night when the eastern fields turn grey and yet
it is still possible to imagine
this morning there will be no sun.
I prayed for you to take it from me,
this cup. I still don’t know
if I can drink.
. . . . .
by Bill Griffin
Second Day posted April 7, 2012
Third Day posted April 8, 2012
Originally published in Wild Goose Poetry Review
V E R S E ❦ I M A G E 