O the busy, solemn canon-lawyers

who think that only men can bless,
and ordained men at that.

I weep for the dearth of poetry
in their collared, shackled hearts.

Don't they see? Blessing is anarchic
as love, as Spirit-wind, celebratory
as music, as a child's joyful cries.

Blessing is life. It is a liberty
that cannot be controlled by moral
grammarians, by the prudent

guardians of What Makes Sense.
Blessing is female. I'll say it if no one
else will. It is glorious, divine, wayward,

mischievous, triumphant. It is
genderfluid, it is subversive. It knows
no empire, no book of law. It has not

studied theology. Blessing is the muddy
reek of spring, the high priestess's feet
kissing the shy growth of earth awake.

Blessing is perhapsless, becauseless.
Blessing is generous. Throws the doors
of the storehouse wide open. Blessing

heals the wounded, and raises the lowly
to the highest of high places.