Saturday, April 7, 2018

Poem for Holy Friday

God is dead
and I am buying apples at the store.
I turn in my hand each
Granny Smith and inspect it
for bruises,
and some I put in the plastic bag
to take home and eat.
Each is dead.
Each is cut off from the tree.
But each has, too, within itself,
the seeds.
Each seed a world of apples that may be,
If the seed but accepts that it must die,
be buried in the earth,
and rise again,
into a life-giving tree.

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