Passageways
Moving towards the end of the hall
one feels the warmth of the light
which slips in from the side
like a merchant with a tea tray.
Gentleness is the gloss of the floor
with satin sleekness on cold stones.
The rain just beyond the pillars
reminds me that water was poured on me
and that I am marked as Christ’s
own forever and a day.
The warmth of the baptism
is camouflaged in the chill
of the passageway floor
for life has this disparity between
light and dark,
Jesus and holy ones,
wet and dry,
warm and cold
whites and greys.
And beyond;
the window panes
so that light enters from behind
defining beauty.
A soft cheek of bronze.
A gentle hand of pink skin.
Is it blessing?
Is it Jesus?
Is it even grey?
Who cares when
the sun is so warm
and the smell
of Lilacs is in the air.
And what is holy
is so evident.
