The gift of the poet

I rant at the TV news, bemoan the antics of our politicians and generally lament the world we adults are leaving our children. I spew it out in that old neighborhood, midwestern way of speaking, colorfully pepperd with an occasional expletive. When I'm done I just raise up my arms and say, "I hope the Holy Spirit knows what she's doing!."

This Saturday morning though, not having any children to define my schedule and turning a blind eye to all the work that needs to be done around the house, I grabbed a anthology of poetry, "Grace Notes". I think the author, Joseph Bottum, in his poem, Easer Morning, is lamenting as well though much more eloquently. Has he found hope in the promise of Easter?

These are the last three stanzas of his poem.

Touch-me-nots among the stones,
bluebells and sorrels, solomon’s seal.
Every spring pretends a pity
for all the pretty, short-lived things.
Last night I watched the fire zones,
the bombing plumes, the tracer rounds:
blooms of war on the TV news.
and now in these green trees I see
the graves of gods and a grove of bones

History labors – a worn machine
sick with torsion, ill-meshed ----
and every repair of an old fault
ruptures something new. The sacred
knife and prey are gone from the woods,
but winter’s blood still springs refreshed
and an altered world still summons death.
As long as we endure ourselves,
Innocence will come to grief
And mercy must remain unfleshed.

The parish bells begin their carols ---
Down through the trees like flourished prayer;
The Easter call resounding. Time
reaches forward, hungry for winter,
and what will save my daughter when even
hope is caught in the ancient snare?
A cold fear waits --- till all that had fallen,
all that was lost, rudely broken,
crossed in love, comes rising, rising
on the breath of the new spring air.