They say that smell is the last sense to go.
the last thing I could smell before I died was freshly baked bread
I might say that I would die a happy woman.
The smell changes, from the spongy-saucy tang of yeast
to something whole and warm and comforting
butter and honey only make it all the more sublime, swooped
on while almost too hot to touch.
Bread of life
I don’t really want to think about Good Friday this year.
too much death of late –
Children and teachers at an elementary school. Two beloved parishioners. A college roommate. Two infants.
Enough, I say. Enough of you, death. Get you gone, go away, don’t come back, leave the people I love alone.
That is the point, of course.
Death comes and takes us all away.
We scour the empty places
but they remain unfilled.
Manet’s two angels captured it, adorned in their cobalt blue wings;
one dressed in the color of dried blood, weeping.
The other, in burnt orange, hair lifted by an unseen breeze,
watching the horizon for
Waiting for the eggs to cook so we can dye them.
Waiting for the child to go to sleep so we can prepare her easter basket.
Waiting for that last burst of inspiration for the sermon.
Waiting for Easter to come.
Waiting for God to do the work of God.
a sense of the familiar.