Jean-Mark Sens

Sunday, he emerges carrying blue iris,
lilies, and maidenhair ferns,
a few cabbage palm fronds,
shears closing their silent beaks
the light just disclosed behind the river hill,
boxwood and red peeled trunks of crepe myrtles.
He picks and chooses, gathers them in his arms,
he will push the iron gate and climb the serpentine brick path.
He pitched semi-pro baseball,
golfer, lifeguard, fencing master,
a life to the body, works of reflexes,
eyes of a blue cutting-edge, deft hands, perfect ambidextrous,
slant ball, whirled ball, knee ball. He catches all.
He embraces the flowers against his chest
and deposits them by the altar,
signs himself, arranges them in a white vase.
No ball to miss.
God and prayers, fragrant Easter between his two luminous hands.