Today’s poem is brought to you from three graveyards, a hymnal, and a free-range rooster.

The Rooster Crows in the Graveyard

The rooster crows in the graveyard

The rooster struts in the street

The rooster ruffles his feathers
Insufferably loud – proud –
And shuffles back to the graveyard.

The hens huddle close in that low limbed tree
And their small black eyes don’t miss a thing –
Neither truth nor lies.

Those hens! Assessing, Undressing
Reducing, Oppressing him
All with their small black eyes.
Who are they
To look at me that way
He wonders.

The rooster crows
Among crosses of stone and wood

And everlasting life – of factory flowers, at least –

And possibly weeds.

The rooster believes
That the angel blue
Watches over him,
Watches over you,
Watches over the hens,
With their small black eyes,
Watches over the flowers,
And truths, and lies,
And feathers, and strutting,
And worrisome fretting –
Who are you? And – Who Am I?

He’s never seen the angel sigh –
Breathe, laugh, shed tears, or walk – or fly –
Yet the rooster believes as the rooster crows –
The world is more than the hens and I.

It’s more than they see with their beady eyes
It’s more than I see with my frightful pride –

My lies, my truths, all mixed up inside.

Up From the Grave He Arose –

And from the graveyard –
the rooster crows.

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Dear Bacon Friends:
Happy Easter! Happy Passover! And also: I am deeply thankful to those of you who have expressed concern for my sister. She has turned a corner. Further treatment lies ahead, and unfortunate C diff challenges, but not chemotherapy. A heaviness has lifted.

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“Do Not Ride the Rooster. Legs Have Been BROKEN.”

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Beautiful version of the famous hymn:

Sent from my iPad

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