Echo

The house is without onions,

grey has overdrawn the sky.

Silent cell phone in the other room

begs an echo.

The young girl's cat,

missing the girl,

nests anew 

in every chair.

We pretend to read,

fingers following every line,

but lacking pictures the pages

stay unturned.

It might as well be

the one night Jesus

lay dead.

Even the motor gunning trucks

are dry leaves in a blind alley.

Separation is not a mother's

favorite skill.

Bum ankle creaking stairs,

I cart the coffee trey and cereal,

ancient altar boy in steaming

processional.

As the cups are finished,

the calendar fast forwards

toward return.

Window Dressing

The day after sin sits

frozen, off yellow wax

staining the otherwise blue.

If it weren't for the light

of the Empty Tomb,

you'd think it ruined,

but as the window seat glass

reflects the wondering face

above approaching city lamps,

a whisper of angels

numbers a current of prayers,

circling in the air draft,

posting the eternal ETA

of our forgiveness

and future.

Far from home,

going home,

the jammed seats

face forward to a welcome

landing, the trained to be friendly

personnel assure us

the gravity we just defied

bears no grudge,

and the first steps we take

in the new, will much resemble

our last, dignified

by hope.

Common

My wit's end

is a balloon string

spectacular in release.

I lean into the wind

"blowing where it wishes"

and watch my apprehensive crutch

fall to the yard.

Messianic melodies

drape on a mandolin,

is it a mitzvah ?

Our Deity digs ditties,

a few angels spared

for the heads of tuning pegs.

Not yet old men,

our grown children

groan over our table manners

at the Feast.

Challah bread and jelly

not the only things

common  to our plate.