Sporadic stone edges aren’t precious gifts
inside wide throats swallowing sparse praise.
Fingers in orange soil pull rootless weeds—
miracles, gifts never asked for but forced on all.
The secret is never keep it to yourself.
Insistent life breaks earth, opens hope that
our dead don’t rise as earth spits crooked flowers.
What’s given are wildflowers grown on buried grandfathers
never knowing love should flow like whiskey off chins.
Christ’s birthplace of hay accepts kings
but desires sacrifice in all shades between
mountains, marred seas, any world bodies drop.
Field weeds spill, bless corners of carpet church steps.
Wrinkled petals under fingernails stain as blood.