One Sunday on a February Morning

One Sunday on a February Morning

(“But you are merciful and gentle, Lord, slow in getting angry, full of constant loving-kindness and of truth.” Psalm 86:15)

I heard the sound of Your people rustling,
I heard the talking, the prayer and listening.
I heard the babies high above the others and,
for a moment their squeals held the floor.

I saw the old men asking, the young men grasping
their ladies by the hand. I saw the old women planning,
the young women juggling their children and their man.

I felt gentle flurries, foglet drizzle that dampened our shoulders
and hands with the first greetings of the morning. The grass
glistened from asphalt to sidewalk, left too long after summer’s
last trim. Some mud in the entry, more children with their pennies
to drop with laughter in the willow baskets with dollars and numbers
back, forth, up and down. If mom let them, they bombed the
offering plate with their tiny ammo.

One of the littlest, black hair, round face, believes he owns the place,
wandered to the holy steps where the man who always shakes everyone’s
hands stands. The old blonde table was absent its juice and crackers,
but he still was slow to touch it. The pews are for playing, but this table
is always where people are praying so solemn.

I saw the burdened, I saw the tangles of lives lived backwards
and forwards, and beginning and again. I saw the love (I
cannot lie)
when, for one hour it did not matter why children disobey,
spouses walk away, jobs are scarce, darkness scares our
little ones awake. We did not need to make up for
our mistakes or wear our usual daytime masks. Our
thrift store faces are just fine when

We enter the meeting one more time to
touch the gentle spring of Eternal love,
with breath coming easy in this dancing insanity,
the divine and humanity seriously at play.