Morning, Good Friday Poem by Steven Federle

Therefore let me know trust in the feelings of my heart. My hope is in what the hand of man has never touched. Do not let me trust what I can grasp between my fingers.
Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude.

Young grass
high and thick
drenched
filled to brim,
by morning sun released
a fury of green, trees
believing that golden day
will stay.

Persist, oh life,
despite the cold of winter,
and beat, my heart!
With tender heat
yet awhile
I'll breathe!