For The Sunday Whirl: wordle #76
Eyes dazed by bright sunlight,
she steps into shadowy narthex.
Immediately assaulted by scent
of incense: ancient symbol of prayers
rising from centuries of countless
Watches as fingertips reach
to dip into holy water at font,
unconsciously ruled by eight years
of daily parochial-school training.
With darting hummingbird’s grace,
hand rises to skim forehead, middle
of chest, left shoulder then right,
ending with almost tender kiss
Slips silently into empty pew,
after abbreviated genuflection.
Breathing slows as she rests,
leaning back against warm
polished wood. Fingers softly
glide across worn leather flaps
of oft used hymnal.
Thoughts scurry through decades
of questions lacking answers,
and answers that only beg
All that remains is fear
of not being heard.
There is no room for ambivalence.
as we forgive those
who trespass against us
And so it begins…
Elizabeth Crawford 9/30/12