Sometimes, I wish I was brave
as these crocus buds not yet waving,
for whom silence is eternity
and everything began yesterday;
instead, I cling to a stubborn faith
in an ancient language
which still can't convey
the religiousness of plain light.
But then, I don't know, I want to say,
a decision you can't make
is one that's already been decided—
like the way the fragile skies
and ladies in gray keep weeping
and weeping each spring, but Jesus
keeps getting crucified anyway.