Poetry
November 1, 2000
I gave this day to God when I got up, and look,
look what it birthed! There up the hill was the apple tree, bronze leaves, its fallen apples
spilling richly down the slope, the way God spilled his seed into Mary, into us. In her the holy promise
came to rest in generous soil after a long fall. How often it ends in gravel, or dry dust.
Blackberry patches thorny with distraction. Oh, I pray my soul will welcome always that small
seed. That I will hail it when it enters me. I don't mind being grit, soil, dirt, mud-brown,
laced with the rot of old leaves, if only the seed can find me, find a home and bear a fruit
sweet, flushed, full-fleshed—a glory apple.
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