Spring, St. Brigid, and the Milky Way: Poems for Earth Day

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Well friends, another Earth Day is upon us and I thought I’d use the day to share a few more poems of mine. The first two are from my forthcoming book, The Green Man, a rather natural choice for Earth Day. But the last one is from a new book I’m working on, tentatively entitled, Liturgical Entanglements. It takes us from the Earth and into the Sky, but I think this appropriate as we should be thinking about our cosmic relationships as well as our terrestrial ones.

“Spring comes to New Hampshire”

The melting snow leaves the ground soft,
Readying the land for planting.
Trees are drained and sugar shacks are stuffed
To the brim, boiling, grunting
Old and young alike delight.
But promised warmth always leaves us wanting
As frost is found in early morning light.
Yet the cold of Winter cannot stay,
It soon gives way to mornings warm and bright.
After death comes life, some say,
Always returning, never quite the same.
The long nights passed by longer days,
Winter sleep becomes vernal fame.
And I too find myself changed;
Like a star I feel my life aflame.
The fire burns, I am not pained,
But refined and iridescent shine.
My death in sleep is thus exchanged
For this greening life of mine.
As herbs grow so too do I, breathed
Into life like prayer at Compline,
Like effoliation, trees leaved,
Budding first then bursting forth
In peace, like a sword sheathed.
This Spring will see a fulsome dearth
Of life to live that is of worth.

“St. Brigid”

Give to me your prayers, o blessed Bride,
O woman of Kildare, please bring me home.
Show me Christ and drench me to the bone
With your love for him, the love in which you died.
You give the Church of Oak a source of pride
For there, through you, God’s grace miraculously shone.
Your prayers were said to cause the rains to run,
And you blessed the babes who in broken families cried.
Yet who are you really, Brigid of Kildare?
Were you a pagan goddess, as some believe,
Worshipped at the Imbolc, the start of Spring?
Or are you the patron saint of poets and brewers,
An abbess of Christ under the oaken the leaves?
I believe you’re with the angels, and you sing.

“The Milky Way”

Herbert said it was a kind of prayer,
The galaxy in which we spin and live.
Looking up, he saw what you had to give,
He saw it through the liminal, luminous air.
For him there was no light-polluted layer
To obscure his sight, which allowed him to believe
That the whole of God’s creation is alive
In him and shining with celestial flare.
But I can barely see the stars at night,
Let alone Phaeton’s streak across the sky.
So how am I to use it as I pray
When it has been obstructed by our lights?
But then I see the pictures by those who try,
And I can say I’ve prayed the Milky Way.