A Poem For Sunday

A reader sent me this as a response to my reflections on grief earlier this week. It's called "The Acts Of The Apostles", by William Bronk. It blew me away:

The second time the flesh was harder to put on
and there was no womb to shape and soften it,
unless it were Joseph's tomb in the cut rock
that shaped, perhaps, but more misshaped to a kept
mask, as a wet shoe is hardened as it dries
to a foot shape and the print of a step, but not
to the moving muscle and bone that walking was.
What wonder...