Easter Octave

Today in church we learned about the eighth day, the promise of eternity after six days of making our universe, the Sabbath seventh to rest, the eighth and evermore to bless and serve and believe. Perhaps on secular levels, the infinity sign is a lateral 8 that looks like a mobius strip; now I'll always associate it with the Easter Octave and the promise that the resurrection is forever.

Prayers were given for all in need of healing, and that means all of us. I love that we are more than healed already.

As you may have gathered, I'm trying to draft a poem a week, partly on the promise that Jon's review of poems he's written over the years will be revised each week this year, and those have been particularly poignant in both memory and fresh review. My poem this week is a touch frivolous, but still something I'd like to float on to you:

            Choose

I like croutons in my soup,

island cubes that float the memories

of Dědo, grabbing more than

his due, but then again, wouldn’t you?

And dice them nicely with

my salad, to complement the lettuce

crunch, a drop or two of olive

oil may sponge into the blissful toast.

Canines eat them naturally,

like everything that adds to dogfood

drudgery—overstatement, yes,

yet bound to make us think of choice.

I choose them as a favorite

food; there’ll be no documentaries on

how they’ve been abused—and

thus I’ll tune in those with crisper zeal.