Updated: Nov 10, 2020
by Frank De Canio
I trudge across the drab, dismantled earth, crucified by hammering winter storms. There seems to be no sprinkling of rebirth and icy branches lean, as if for warmth, against the top-coat grayness of the sky. Neither monkish buds, cowled in sepal stripes, nor lily-togaed prophets testify, as trumpeting winds muffle shepherds’ pipes, and fell fields freeze in furrowed disrepair. The earth wears tattered garments, stained like sin, while April’s linen dress is worse for wear. I pray Life’s resurrection now begin to usher in its eager, faithful flock past darkness toward the crowing of the cock.
Originally published in Sunken Lines, Spring 2008. Appeared in Ancient Paths Online, April 18, 2020.