There is a wood plank wall, above, a blistering sun-
Clouds and sky swim in it, and the mud below indifferent,
Looking for a water fist for a thirst;
Worshiping a mood. And a drop descends, garlands a grass blade,
Moves in a hurry for a baptism, a sainted reign.
It will cover a dynasty of a lawn, jeweled by the sun
In a fluted christening. And the jangled hymns sung in a papal garden.
Weeds unload their griefs- dandelions white as knuckles,
Murmuring affirmations about a Resurrection.
A yew tree makes the sign of the cross, gentled by a soberly garment of wind.
A drop of water has fallen a long way. Wet and mystical from a church spigot.
Floating on the delicate hands of a prayer; twice on a Sunday.
Church bells startling a sky; a preacher’s tongue walks among the headstones
In search of a sign, an effigy, but not a blade of grass.
His hands and face are stiff from a thirst- parishioners see nothing of this
Until a blackness in a cloud unloosens a rain. It drags away a drought. A silence.
Copyright © 05/19/18 lance sheridan®