March 8 Sonnet
Shall I compare thee to my daily bread?
How can that be, for you are friend, father.
Stone oven bakeries by flames are fed,
my kitchen’s loaves of wheat and oats offer
no small promise of sustenance rising.
Bread in our home, or to the ground falling-
while Israel wander’d, recognizing
not you in the feeding, in the watching.
And standing there like teacher, brother, friend;
you also walk on water, multiply
the smallest gift and laws of nature bend.
Comfort shaken by bread, we stumble by.
Safe little baby, all swaddled and warm…
this Christ of the mountain takes me by storm.