"Let us therefore cast off the works of darkness, and . . . put on the armour of light" (Romans 13:12).
for Cristi
Past winters, she was
a solitary stick,
heckled by wind
and a jumble of
unwelcome weather.
But she bewildered the
misguided opposition
(and even herself) with
a dazzling testament
to a hidden & beautifully
unapparent life.
Michael James Fitzgerald
Tired leaves and
tarnished grass,
Geese mourning
the sun,
The tide of summer
slipping into night.
When will I see your
perfect light again?
How can I forget your
inescapable bones?
Michael James Fitzgerald
Along a keen edge
of dark and light
I ran an unsuspecting
finger
and left behind a
sunset drop
in memory of this
forgotten world,
its atomic trouble,
double-barreled blame,
shark-toothed schoolyard terror,
from which I flee
like an invisible child
flying home
one last time.
Michael James Fitzgerald
Heaven saved my childhood tears—
tucked them all safely into the firmament—
mild, fierce, unwelcome
confessions of the heart.
Today, She could bear them
no longer.
Michael James Fitzgerald
She sleepwalks
waist high through
prairie wide light,
then deeper &
deeper plows
infinite night
til she captures
all stars & every
child goes free,
and her heart
comes home to
the Immaculate Tree.
Michael James Fitzgerald
See 1 Nephi 11:21–22
The Sun rose, brilliantly
and unforgettably wise.
She yearned to
mislay indelible
desolations,
While iron hands
clutched scents of
impossible reverence,
The reliquary’s shining
witnesses requited
by tear-drained eyes.
How she turned from them!
“Where is He?” she
demanded of a lowly
Gardener,
barely a shred of
her former self
in evidence.
“Mary,” He said, the
only word the moment
could demand,
The first word on
the first day of a
recalculated infinity.
Michael James Fitzgerald
See John 20:11–18.
The inevitable Man will
burn conscience to ash
if Pilatos hears me not.
I witnessed His suffering,
a visceral dream so low
waking seems only dreaming.
Hear me, infinite
aspiration! Destiny
is not among your gods.
Jupiter this day has
fallen from the
grace of veneration,
And so shall you
if you hear me not—
if you dare with cold fingers
to touch the Soul of the universe.
Michael James Fitzgerald
See Matthew 27:19.
The soul of the earth holds
me with her arms, her
enfolding secrets of quiet.
“Listen,” she whispers to
delirious ears, “for my
desperate, insistent heart.”
For decades, nothing. Then:
“Forgive me, Mother.
I hear you now, and your
immense, dark silence.”
Michael James Fitzgerald
Photo courtesy Cristi Fitzgerald ❤️
On loan from a distant world,
your borrowed beauty wakes
on spring’s eve,
Yellow trumpets singing
holy anthems to
the bones of the earth,
Summoning wonders and powers
and unfixed memories mere
science cannot abide:
This secret of the universe—
She in high office owns
a tireless eye for beauty.
Michael James Fitzgerald
How like the stars
you keep counsel
with the night, plying
a pierceable darkness:
Brilliant and silent,
loyal as the sun, your
Far-off consolations are
joy enough to suffice
for longing and for now.
Michael James Fitzgerald
