Improvisations

(“The practice of resurrection encourages improvisation on the basic resurrection story….” Eugene Peterson)

The day Grandma died

something quickened in the atmosphere.

A breeze sashayed

through the cherry orchard.

Unseen stars kicked up their heels

in the day-blind sky.

****

Cancer ward. My friend Sandi

fights nausea. Hope hides

its bright face but refuses

to disappear altogether.

Outside in the evening

pond frogs croak,

“Kyrie eleison.

Kyrie eleison.”

****

Peter turns seven.

At his request we go to Red Robin

for hamburgers. As the waiters

gather at a neighboring table

to sing a loud and public “Happy Birthday,”

Peter leans in and announces,

“They’re going to do that to me next.”

And they do.

****

On my early morning walk,

hundreds of calendar-defying daffodils

greet me, all of them grinning

like stewardesses.

****

Dwaine’s death stuns. My friend

and colleague, a husband, father,

grandfather. Running on the beach.

Not old. Not old at all. It’s like

those something-is-wrong-

with-this-picture puzzles I did

as a child. Lord, help us trace our way

through the shadowed places. Splash

in some resurrection hues.