Devotional

Praying The Rosary

The Sundays you visited
Were set aside
For mass?

I heard the incense, light’s fragrance,
Sing hymns through stained glass windows,

You sat next to me. I noticed the tangled
Vine or rosary beads, a prayer growing
Between your knotted thumb and forefinger.

Reciting the stations of the cross,
A mud colored story, told frame by frame, I never understood.

After peace, they offered up the host,
And the bells responded. On my shoulder
I felt your hand, able to crush walnuts.

And over the priest the crucifix watched my questioning.
I wonder why you refuse the legion of angels help?

You close your eyes,
Accept the host, a special anointing.
You understood.

Come off your cross. Show me the wounds
In your hands and side at the mouth of the empty tomb.