She digs deep,
the earth, loamy and expectant,
swells beneath her fingernails.
She hums the words over and
over again,
their melody has been stuck in her head for days,
as she plants begonias, row on row,
blowing blood red kisses at the sky.
“I am more generous toward sinners than toward the
just.”*
She warms at the very thought and continues to plant.
The arching sun soothes that age-old twinge in her neck
as she turns to see her name engraved on his hand.
*From The Diary of Saint Faustina (1275)
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