Monday, May 21, 2018

Song of Scaffolding

Fold the creamy linens,
like bread dough on the countertop,
kiss the wooden altar,
where I have left my heart.

You have held a life here,
on brown-paper-glass floor,
through phone calls with Balthasar,
rendezvous on tear-streaked mornings,
guilty Christmas wreath-packings.

Women meet and pray here
in the hush before the day springs,
in the quiet as night stills
to a heart-beat halt.

Your arms, spread wider than the heavens,
scatter old wounds to crumble
in condemned chapels.
With such a gracious host,
scarred hearts and wounded hands,
can welcome new loves and guests
with the enthusiasm of Elizabeths.

I hold your hand in mass,
and feel your body,
rooted to the hardwood floor,
grow tall and strong next to me.
A tree who I can grow with,
lean on, and find shade in,
here in this chapel of visitation.

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