Easter was Sunday. The dog is splitting open from chunks having been cut out of her and then inexpertly re-sewn. There’s a stew of news. All bad. This is what Eliot said, for Good Friday:
After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience
(no AI assistant)
Anastasia M. Coles 