By Linda Gregg
It was a picture I had after the war.
A bombed English church. I was too young
to know the word English or war,
but I knew the picture.
The ruined city still seemed noble.
The cathedral with its roof blown off
was not less godly. The church was the same
plus rain and sky. Birds flew in and out
of the holes God’s fist made in the walls.
All our desire for love or children
is treated like rags by the enemy.
I knew so much and sang anyway.
Like a bird who will sing until
it is brought down. When they take
away the trees, the child picks up a stick
and says, this is a tree, this the house
and the family. As we might. Through a door
of what had been a house, into the field
of rubble, walks a single lamb, tilting
its head, curious, unafraid, hungry.
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My Monday was pretty typically boring, though considering the fact that we'd been warned we might wake to snow and we only woke to a bit of drizzle, I'm not complaining. I had a bunch of work to do in the house, then a couple of chores to do out of the house, and while I was at CVS, I noticed a legendary Pokemon egg was about to hatch at Starbucks, so I summoned the locals for a raid, though my first Latias got away from me, woe!
I could not get myself excited enough to watch the Villanova game, though I am glad they beat Michigan (I've rooted for Villanova against parental wishes ever since they beat Georgetown my freshman year of college, when I was in Philadelphia and excited for them). Instead we watched Civil War in our MCU marathon; having seen it twice recently, I like Tony Stark and his massive ego less each time. Lambs from Mount Vernon this weekend:
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