(Stephen Girling/Pexels)

We ran in from the thunderstorm’s
medieval bells swinging hawthorn,
forsythia, cherry blossoms ripped

by wind, and the whole ethereal palette
so strangely backlit by the glow
of morning sun, I paused a moment

to stare. We were already late,
but I like to stop to be amazed
when I’m late, as I often am, to confess

what lasts. Then some voice I love, vexed,
shouts, Come on! Soaked, we dipped our fingers
in the font, and wet blessed wetter.

Our trail of shoeprints trailed our lives.
The pews were full. We stood to the side;
everyone stood for the deacon’s fling

of holy water for the asperges,
cast with an almost lavish air.
For us by the wall, no such shower—

as he passed, he brushed each forehead directly
with bristles that were like a donkey’s,
smooth and rough at once, and more

than enough. We sang “I Saw Water
Flowing from the Temple”—its lines
let us praise the rain that is the shine.

Katie Hartsock’s second poetry collection, Wolf Trees, was listed as one of Kirkus Reviews’ Best Indie Books of 2023. Her work has recently appeared in the Threepenny Review, Oxford Poetry, Plume, Dappled Things, Tupelo Quarterly, Image, and elsewhere. She teaches at Oakland University in Michigan.

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Published in the February 2025 issue: View Contents
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