I seem to have come to the end of something, but don’t know what, <br />Full moon blood orange just over the top of the redbud tree. <br />Maundy Thursday tomorrow, <br />then Good Friday, then Easter in full drag, <br />Dogwood blossoms like little crosses <br />All down the street, <br />lilies and jonquils bowing their mitred heads. <br /> <br />Perhaps it’s a sentimentality about such fey things, <br />But I don’t think so. One knows <br />There is no end to the other world, <br />no matter where it is. <br />In the event, a reliquary evening for sure, <br />The bones in their tiny boxes, rosettes under glass. <br /> <br />Or maybe it’s just the way the snow fell <br />a couple of days ago, <br />So white on the white snowdrops. <br />As our fathers were bold to tell us, <br /> it’s either eat or be eaten. <br />Spring in its starched bib, <br />Winter’s cutlery in its hands. Cold grace. Slice and fork.<br /><br />Charles Wright<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/last-supper/
