Easter Musings

Every Easter, I think hard about life, I think of human suffering; the Word Made flesh and Christ's redeeming sacrifice. Yet there's still so much that I have to learn. We poets, are conversely: flesh made word. The seasons and the elements shape us. We seem to dream of impossible worlds. We are, at times, the essence of stardust. We are linked to the sweet songs of wild birds. Each fresh syllable we stress is heart felt. And often our very beingness burns With an eerie fire that is transcendent.