Ten years a priest.
I should have something to say,
but I have let words trickle away, 
at funerals or weddings,
during mundane Monday 
phone calls, meetings;

I notice the peripheral
things, such as my hair,
cut off after my husband’s cancer,
when I couldn’t handle
one more thing,
which grew back 
in pandemic’s early days
when I couldn’t be near
one more person,

Is now the same length 
again as it was ten years
ago, although
each strand that hangs
in the photos between 
my face and my family 
has fallen away, 
like words that fell
from my lips 
or silently decayed.

They have been replaced,
with new growth – a miracle,
as are words of grief,
blessing, prayer that continue
to babble, to bubble up,
to sink into the silt,
to water my eyes;

as is the Word that continues
to wrap my heart with stubborn moss.