Summon us to your dwelling
with our cradled offerings
water-cracker confetti
a sundered edge of sourdough
quince, grapes, chutney,
eggs and herbs for soufflé,
butter, flour and milk to marry
over roasted cauliflower.
We are, too, at your beginning
through the valley with its arching river
twice as cold as the morning,
then up onto higher ground
above the distant reservoir
where cats gather to clean their paws
in the August haze.
Hold wide your arms,
head tilted back
in resignation of your fullness
as if to say: here I am.
At the appointed hour
we’ll press back against the walls
away from the cassocked benediction
of priests who must stare, test,
flex their supple brushes
and paint you over with wild nettles.
Epicurus was almost-right
about life’s almost-ordinaries
in what they offer us —
a momentary salvation,
which might just be enough.
[This is an Honorable Mention Poem from our Spring 2024 Poetry Contest.]