Poetry

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Not a Gorton’s Fisherman,
no he doesn’t have the hands,
the weathered brow,
the smell of fish,
or the sound of the rocky Maine coast

Mustard yellow hooded,
bearded and bespectacled,
a neoprene monk
looked back from the wet car window
mirrored in the rain in the church lot

A bumblebee, a lady bug, and a yellow princess
in tow, coursing across the puddles,
‘round the courtyard,
burst through the door,
ready for the moist greetings of pastors and friend
commotion in the narthex
before the race to the coat rack
the clamor to the classroom
Sanctuary and refuge
on a rain soaked morning
in May

May 15, 2006 11:49am

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