PEACH PIE

Arms heavy laden, bent over with the weight they hold.
She drops each burden one at a time,
Surrendering her portion in its season.

At her feet they lie, bruised and wounded.
Distorted by their fall but lying in wait
For hands to gather, clean, and redeem.

With vision and tenderness the knife cuts
Seeking life among the ruined surfaces.
All things must die to live.

Re-formed and crafted, refined by fire, new life bursts forth.
Sweet and comely, dripping from the the fork:
A work of grace and priestly transformation.