NOVEMBER

THE
WALK

Desperately lost
November frost
When all seems
To decay

A leaf bedspread
Does cover the dead
Where bone and body
Lay

A pale gray dawn
Then yawns upon
Cold stones
And acorns brown

I walk to Mass
On icy grass
To see His spiked
Barbed crown

Where wood twined-braid
His head, it laid
Blood soaked
Pierced flesh by thorn

But crown displays
The price He pays –
The Priest at Mass
Each morn

His Flesh from bread
Wine is Blood shed
Under appearances
Matter resembles

Like body and bone
Distinct…not alone
Hallowed souls elevate
And hell trembles.