Neither death, nor life, nor angels,
nor principalities, nor powers,
nor things present, nor things to come...
On he goes.
Outside, the ice on the street
bracing for the day’s human contact,
and the prodigal snow,
everywhere and unromantic,
blots out grass, earth, animals.
Can I believe
That this barren, featureless land that raised
receives the seed like any other?
The parable did not speak of snowy ground.
If it had, the meaning may have been
So I gather.
I imagine Paul,
shivering out a wretched winter,
making tents so warm we marvel at his skill,
and are protected from this cold.
(We love his letters when he goes.)
It’s not so preposterous.
Are we not as good
as any Roman