Is it good to bite into
the crusty, doughy wheatiness
of Word made Flesh made Bread;
to drink the cup- the complex bouquet
of birth and stars and long roads,
friends, stories, long roads,
betrayal, suffering, short road to death
but also hearth-fires and washed feet?
Is it good to remember
that love had courage
to speak out, stand tall,
stand with, be told;
learn and grow;
to hold firm and die?
Dare we shed a tear?
Is it “him” and is it even me?
Where is the place on earth
where love bakes, breaks bread
and wine is shared;
where suffering is acknowledged?
What does it mean
to have “life”?
shecallsme 