At 73
I think I know, finally
how to embrace life:
Carefully
aware of the wounded spots
that will cry out if I hug too tightly

Those wounds I inflicted
with the flicked whip
the pointed thorn
the hammered nail

Too often, I think,
I have nailed life to the cross
of my expectations
hoping to bleed satisfaction
from the wounded body
raised high on the cross
of my hopes
nailed hard to the cross
of my fears

I stood at the foot
of the cross of life
aghast at my own cruelty

Tenderly I lifted life from the cross
cradled life in my arms
buried life in the garden of my heart
enclosed by the stones of my sad knowing

And then, again and again,
I marveled as those stones
proved flimsy
no match for the power of life
new born but no infant
shining forth
freed from my tomb

Ah yes, again and again
have I marveled
at life
Resurrected 
Undefeated
Glorious 
Risen
Life

Until, again and again,
I put life on trial
and began to look again
for the whip, the thorn, 
the crucifying cross

Forgetting 
or maybe choosing to ignore
Life’s resurrection power