Any square foot of Earth is worth
more than all the snow-white Moon;
why, this spot on which you stand
is crowded and crammed with the memory
of seeds and stones, blood and bones,
birth and breath, and yes,
not a little death;
and the footprints of those who,
like you, passed this way & paused,
blessing this sacred ground.
Image credit: Photo: “Light Steps” by PetarPaunchev / Licensed from Adobe Stock
Writer
Everyone looks up to Jerry Windley-Daoust, and not just because he is two meters tall (that’s just about 6' 7" for those still resisting the metric system): he is also the author of more than two dozen books on topics such as Catholic social teaching, family spirituality, and Ignatian prayer. Even more impressively, he spent ten years as a stay-at-home dad for his five children while his wife taught theology at Saint Mary’s University of Minnesota. He took an MA in pastoral ministry from the same institution, despite submitting a 250-page master’s thesis that his advisor never finished reading. Lately, Jerry has also been writing essays, poetry, novels, and award-winning short stories grounded in Christian hope. You can find him hiking along the Mississippi River with his family on many Sunday afternoons; however, an easier way to track him down would be to find his portfolio website, Windhovering.com, which takes its name from “The Windhover,” a poem by one of his favorite poets, G. M. Hopkins.
A poem, with a side of basil. If it’s miracles you’re after,then in the darkest days of Decemberpurchase packets of tomato seedsand hold them close, like holy cards,and recite the litany of their namesas a stay against winter’s cruel claws:Brandywine, Oxheart, Black Krim, Rosella;Honey Gold, Pink Girl, Moon Glow, Tigerella;Chianti Rose, Sunrise, Orange Jazz, Tangella….
A poem. I have come here to harvest humusfrom the rotten bottom of the compostI left by the apple tree last fall.Raking away the shrouding coverof dry leaves reveals the dark heartof newborn earth.Leaning into the spade,I slice through the soiland lift it into the rusty wheelbarrow. The apple tree stands by,her wide boughs bespangledwith…
A poem. My grandfather didn’t like to talk about the war,but if you asked, he would share this story. On a cold April morning just outside Monte Casino,he walks into a field, dry stalks breaking under his feet.His living breath makes small curling clouds of fog,lit by the morning light for the space of a…
It’s been a post-apocalyptic winter around here,the sun smothered by ash-gray rags sodden with snow,the snow wrung out on our heads by the bony handsof Arctic winds. Some ancient ice god wants us dead,judging by the icy daggers he hangs around our houses.At night, he presses his face against the black windowsand claws at our…
God knows, we’ve fought enough these past few years — but for one night, we make a truce. A poem. As darkness settles over the land,we gather above the wide river —some thousands of us Americanscome for Fourth of July fireworks. Our long shadows linger in the lastlight, entangling us with one another,and perhaps with…
So, if you would be a Saint,by which I mean that S-Tstands stoutly before your name;and miracles multiplylike dandelions springingwild from your incorrupt heart;and your wise eyes stare star-likefrom icons, your head haloedon silver platters of paint;and we remember your death-day with feasts, and bells ringing;if you would be, in short, thou:— then pray, do…