Neither death, nor life, nor angels,

nor principalities, nor powers,

nor things present, nor things to come...

On he goes.

Outside, the ice on the street

stiffens,

bracing for the day’s human contact,

and the prodigal snow,

everywhere and unromantic,

blots out grass, earth, animals.

Can I believe

That this barren, featureless land that raised

me

receives the seed like any other?

The parable did not speak of snowy ground.

If it had, the meaning may have been

to wait.

So I gather.

I imagine Paul,

shivering out a wretched winter,

making tents so warm we marvel at his skill,

and are protected from this cold.

(We love his letters when he goes.)

Don’t laugh.

It’s not so preposterous.

Are we not as good

as any Roman

or Corinthian?