For Easter, we wanted to feature a poem by one of our members who offers some thoughts on the question: What is the shape of the soul? Rody Rowe says he awoke with these words on his heart. Thank you, Rody, for sharing this meditation with us.

“The Shape of the Soul”

for John Doerper

a cup without handles so both palms can mime a cradle.

tin, not crystal, light, durable, in a way, eternal,

easy to pack and carry even up to the high mountain

streams close to cloud-birth, tumbling, granite-cold

and clean the way God will taste on the sabbath morning

you find the sanity to kiss her full on the lips, but until

then, a deep well of seasons to pray up into the waiting

light, to dip the rim into a salt of frost, ethereal snow,

then ladle up spring’s syrup and forget-me-not honey

andhonesttogoodnessdblackberryjam for holy toast,

stews and chowders, cioppinos, broths and bisques,

and alms songs that rattle round the rim like shiny coins

and psalms of held breath and mourning doves,

and symphonies swelling all the seams,

something Copland-like or Lark Ascending

or a fiddle-full of ale and amber-poured shanties,

and last, a crush of tears, and twilight,

where we can only hope

the dents and scars of the longest dark,

will be repaired from our earliest need,

the red blouse parting, this glad reprise,

this chalice of flesh,

our old mulling mouths

gently guided home.

Rodolph Rowe