It always rains on Good Friday.
\nA Buddhist would not notice.
\nIslam keeps to itself,
\nbut the trees are carved in ivory.
\nThe winter always lingers here.
\nIn the tropics the air is light as lemon.
\nHere the grief of time is naked.
\nThe churches are filled with shadows
\nthat reach out and touch the eyes
\nof the faithful.
\nWhy is it called good to die?
\nWhy do people put their hands together
\nlike clams?
\nLike wings that shelter a prayer?<\/p>\n
A little voice inside the palms
\nwhispers, it is sad to die.
\nIt is sad to leave a world
\nthat breathes so beautifully.
\nThe air is so fresh,
\nmoving over the city
\nwith its yellow forsythia.
\nIt is never stormy on this day,
\nonly surreally still,
\nas if a riddle is being shared
\nwith nothing in particular,
\nbut the child who asks over and over,
\nwhy is it called good?
\nAnd I would tell it,
\nthat a prophet is telling a story,
\nthat it is good
\nto be gentle and cry,
\nbut the odyssey of life is laughter,
\nnothing more.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
It always rains on Good Friday. A Buddhist would not notice. Islam keeps to itself, but the trees are carved in ivory. The winter always…<\/p>\n