Some are like those we’d bring inside for Christmas:
Dignified, impassive, stood upright, nothing lacking
All weather, through the cold months, if outside same as ever;
But others catch my eye this moment,
The ones that naked face the brunt of winter:
Pushed by ev’ry breath, bending under pressure,
Losing it all to give us shows of colour.
These vulnerable ones matter; so too
The vulnerability of our sister, our mother,
Created from Creator’s thoughts of love,
Of what is good—and they quietly proclaim
The incomparable, infinite, vulnerable wood of the Cross.