The Nature of Finite Existence

Second story window branches bow, all of them burdened with snow. Inside, the aroma of blackberry tea. The first sip burns her tongue. A crystal cup, fine and delicate, A plastic bear of honey on his haunches. Outside, crimson on white. It's only a cardinal— not a metaphor for the Crucifixion. In the shadow of a barren oak something like an angel, something like a vulture. From the ceiling hangs a pane of cut stained glass— Madonna and Child with Joseph reaching out as if to lift the heavy blue cowl and stroke her hair. It's unclear what stops him. Because he's unsure of his place? Because he's afraid— would you stroke the hair of the Mother of God? I want that gentle stroking of my hair. I want that tenderness in Joseph's eyes. I don't want the cross of the years that followed.