This week, Barbara Crooker's poem, "Strewn" ....
It begins like this:
It’d been a long winter, rags of snow hanging on; then, at the end
of April, an icy nor’easter, powerful as a hurricane. But now
And it ends like this:
The light pours down, a rinse
of lemon on a cold plate. All of us, broken, some way
or other. All of us dazzling in the brilliant slanting light.
And you can read what's in between here, at the Poetry Foundation.
And I can tell you this: that just about everything I believe about God and love and people is contained in those two, final, iridescent sentences of hers.