Eyes gently closed. Hands on lap. Feet on floor. Breathe in. Breathe out. Morning light warms my prayer. A buzzing buzzes my ear. My eye opens and shuts. I remain in stillness. My companion darts from window to plant to arm. Thoughts wander. “Am I being invited to play?” Thoughts respond. “No, not all about me.” I marvel at true mastery. Effortlessly, he is living his best life; flying his best fly. Diligently, I work to become my best be.

Crimson splatters on white robes, protein and plasma: essence of life, thick with the stench of death. Violence touches his skin, his face. Not washing away the pain, he is stained. Chest open, arm extended, gazing upward, he looks for invisible grace – a shaft of mercy to enter stained glass, Tragedy not erased but held in broken resurrection. in memory of the Sri Lanka masssacre on Easter Sunday 2019

Red, newborn fists hold together crumpled buds at the ends of patient tree limbs. Magically, they will relax open into smooth, emerald filament. The buttery daffodil rises from winter rest, head still bent - soon to be lifted and alive. Coaxed by gentle light, the natural world slowly awakens: singing spring blossoms. It does not watch the news. It does not pay attention to data, tallies, and tolls. It was not told to shelter-in-place. Sensitive to pesticides but oblivious to