Of Winter and Ordinary Time

The sycamores haunt me,
Bleached branches
Like dead gods’ bones
Flung into starry nothing.

Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Forgive us our belief,
As we forgive our doubt.

Wine and bread weren’t enough,
So I chose fine white cheese
And a thin slice of silence,
The breathing of the dead.

Bless us, Oh, Lord,
And these thy gifts,
Bruised and broken as they be.