Liturgy for a Holiday That Became a Workday Let us kneel in the garden. Let the soil receive our fingerprints. For the root that will not release— we pull. For the box that will not close— we press harder. For the day that was promised to us empty— we forgive its fullness. This is the body of the dandelion: tap root, crown, the milk that stains. This is the body of the house: stripped walls, dust maps, the shapes where pictures hung. Let us give thanks for sweat that is not demanded of us, for labour chosen on a day set aside from labour. Who among us can tell the weeding from the packing? Who among us can tell the uprooting from the keeping? Bend again. The wind absolves nothing but it dries the skin and that is enough. Let the boxes be sealed. Let the garden be ordinary. Let the evening come at sixteen degrees with violet hands and find us finished or at least stopped.