Broken Trees

April 6, 2007, Good Friday. My custom is to walk, during the Three Hours. through Hanson Pines in Rochester, mediating, and, often writing. Wednesday night brought an April snowstorm, wet, and heavy, that so burdened many of the trees that massive branches fell all over the area. Thus . . .
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The chill waters flow
between white-shrouded banks,
laden with the lately fallen snow,
snow that rested heavy on the trees,
relentless weight that pulled the mighty giants down,
a weight their proudly spreading majesty,
the declaration of their superhuman strength,
the proclamation of their long-lived and enduring power --
a weight that glory could not hold,
but, snapping, breaking, fell in shame,
and, crashing, came to lie amid the snow,
abject upon the cold, cold ground --
to die.

And yet the chill waters flow,
from a source unseen,
far beyond the poet’s ken,
and, past the place whereon he sits and writes,
beneath the bridge whereon he trod,
they flow.

Unceasingly they flow,
and on that flow is borne the life
of them that swim and fly and celebrate
the running of the ever-flowing stream.

And so the living Blood we celebrate this day,
that flows amid the heavy chill of sin,
the heaviness that breaks the pridefulness of men,
and tears the beauty they were meant to bear,
and mars the image they were meant to shpw,
and makes them fall and die -- and die -- and die.

But yet that death the everlasting flowing Blood of life,
that once did die but lives and flows once more,
will overcome and wash and rinse away,
and bear the dying sinner on,
and life will reign forevermore.