
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.