On this Good Friday,
Purim, first day of the Vernal
Equinox, Worm Moon Day all
wrapped into one, Mother
Teresa’s words weigh on the mind:
Holiness no luxury for the few
. . . obligation for all.
This point of equal balance,
light and dark, oleander scenting
the garden, Father of flowers having

scattered them and nasturtium all
around—my little patch of earth
transformed into holy ground,
I want to oblige: be like Esther
pleading for her people, petition China
to free Tibet; be like oleander spreading
the sweet scent of hope in life after death,
enlivening this Arabian desert with color,
offering sustenance to the hungry;
this Worm Moon Day, to pray

for the soil as farmers toil to cut furrows,
run ploughshares, sow seed; this
Good Friday, to rest on the soil’s rich
realm, marvel yet again how death has
nurtured new life. Surely no saint—
too full of doubt, afraid still every year
to let the world die so it can rise
yet again—still, in my desert,
I sing the Earth, give thanks for yet

another rebirth, follow the dragonflies
with their gleaming, large-pupiled eyes—
leave behind all my vain-glorious pursuits
to take on their humble task: poised
flame-bright, unwavering, on the tip
of a yellow-green pond weed offering
thanks for sun, pond, bull thistle—
holiness accrued to me only as I
acknowledge I am creation’s clay,
made of feldspar, scoured by dust-laden,
spirit-driven winds.