Birthday
the vigil of the feast
Rounding the bend for the 54th time
Still trotting strongly
time again for a dozen full moons
the span between each ever shorter

and for 365 full strides
Through sunshine and shadow (and no little fog)
Into some nasty places
where only God’s Sistine touch can save
And yet others so wondrous
They call out only for deep thanks and praise
(Lord it is good for us to be here)

Contrasts
To celebrate birth by burying the dead
One hundred ninety one
of the too many forgotten dead
Whose poverty hounds them even after death
Almost all babes and children
Who never had my chance, or yours
Nameless (not to God)
Faceless (nature saw to that)
Brought out into daylight by a daughter of St Francis
Like a mother of 191 sorrows
Pieta
And Wilke helps her
Not noticing much what it means
Just that it needs to be done

Brought out from the “caves”
Where they were waiting, one atop another
The Last Judgement (which has to be better than this)
Like piles of (less than) manure

Idea from God
Let there be for them a garden
A place in warm earth
Under wild grass
Kissed by the strong sun
A better place to wait for the last things
If wait we must



We take them there
We plant them like seeds
Cigarettes (comme il faut) help against gagging
And once in place
We softly tread above
With our incense and holy water
And Fortilien playing his trumpet
His friends with their big drums
First dirges
Then joyful noise
Announcing the end of exodus and exile
(May their souls and the souls of all the departed rest in peace)

Warriors of light
Warriors of prayer
To do the right is truly a battle
Much, but not all, with oneself

The Holy Mother is taken to heaven
The head of the serpent is crushed
(the source of ideas that oppose God with hatred)
But the venom persists, and will poison us still
until we understand
That our Mother is restless for all her children
(not just the lucky)
And that burying the dead in the good earth
Is also a form of assumption into higher realms.

Fr Rick Frechette CP