Love Poem in Lent

The sun's golden lines trill
the creek. We dig in, eat

charred vegetables, grilled
shrimp skewers and drink

cold beer; blue pear blossom air;
descended light, nothing

penitent in our mouths.
Hair hanging, our bell heads

tilted back like the proud
calla lilies, cheekbones burn red.

March blooms in strands
of the wind’s unseen tresses.

We sit on the deck, no sound
from our lips, no supplication

needed: blessing continues
without calendar or prescribed pain.

Even the godless peel back sleeves,
receive warmth from a sky without rain.