He’s had no rest.
Unhappy with the day before,
Worried about the hours ahead,
Ensnared by churning feelings and
A history of quick response,
He squints through blinds
And sees white streams of dappled snow
Wrinkling a steeple down the way;
His anxious glance sweeps up the tapering bricks
And fixes on two simple strips
Of copper, verdigris’d and plain
Above the drowsy street. Early morning...sleepers stir

Light snow still falls. A shovel scrapes.
He remembers some of what I’s heard about
The solace of the cross, which has
A fragile look in the half-tone gray.
He catches a moment’s peace that angry dreams
Denied, along with hints of wisdom to
Carry him through the quarrel that he fancies will
Take place before his lunch:
The One who bled and rose again
Has promised to dispel our dread,
Cleanse ruined minds,
Guide us to what pleases him.
But what’s to say we won’t resist?
His neighbor and he agree that struggle is
The heart of life, and so they fight.
The answer will come from the One who bore the cross.