The Conflict

A paschal moon fights gently

Through a clouded sky

To share Gethsemane

And light the Golden Gate

With testimony's praise

Of Sunday's short-lived triumph

Relinquished now, nostalgically

Clutching the memory

In nature's own reluctance

To abandon man's acclaim.

But tomorrow's self-surrender

Clarifies itself in anguish

To become the greater conquest,

But the moon scowls disgusted

Thinking the battle lost.


Maundy Thursday,



March 1978