By now even the faith has got it wrong,
The Patriarch held hands with the invader
And praised the unjust war, with crossed candles.
The faithful broke ranks, the filigreed eggs
Sat in baskets like stones, the sweet bread
Laid on the table like a closed book.
And us, aghast at what love means
In different homes, to different people,
Unable to choose a place to pray,
Except God’s true garden: the forests,
And the sea marshes where perfect
Great white herons dance in pairs
Just above our heads, their sinewy necks
Above still water: love in mirrors—free,
Wild, calling out the pink crab apple blooms.
The dwarf pines send forth long cones,
An offering of candles lit by the sun.
Christ rises on great heron’s wings.
Carmen Bugan 