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| Sun-washed, April 2023 Benedictine Abbey, Pecos NM |
Good Friday, Georgia O'Keefe
tumbleweed mesas cactus etcetera
Georgia O'Keefe picked flowers for the greenhouse
behind her scrimshaw face.
When she walked into the middle of the crucifixion no one noticed.
Eventually bystanders got bored and went home for lunch.
Stretched canvas.
Inspired but out of red paint,
Georgia squatted patient in the
crumbs of ten million champagne glasses
and looked up at this new kind of cactus.
Waiting for time to take its communion.
Waiting for bones.
from Gas Stations of the Cross
poems by Kathy Shaidle, 1990
* When I was first re-discovering poetry, this one by Canadian writer, Kathy Shaidle found me. Since then, it has always come to mind during Holy Week. I think the way Shaidle weaves in the spirit of Georgia O'Keefe caught me in a way, back then. And, it does still. Last week, while on retreat in Pecos, New Mexico, these two sticks were propped at the corner of our building. I walked by them several times each day and thought they were exactly the kind of thing Georgia O'Keefe would have painted. Peeking around the corner is a view of the magnificent blue sky and a distant cross in the field. The cross of Jesus seems distant by 2,000 years, but somehow closer tonight. Lord, have mercy.
** Most of the time, I am using my own words for posts, but I couldn't resist borrowing from an admired writer tonight.
