Baptism

                   I believe

                   we may never understand

                   the splashing cool water,

                   the gaudy artificial blue of

                   summer carnival popsicles,

                   or the heaving dark blue-gray

                   of an approaching squall line.

                   I believe we will be upended

                   like broken flowers pitched

                   into a mess on the floor;

                   like looming clouds filled

                   with heavy pelting rain;

                   like lovers torn to pieces

                   after falling in melted wet drops. 

                   I believe we are being pared down

                   into handfuls of blued steel and clay

                   and cedar wood shavings, which is

                   the closest we can bring ourselves

                   to the smell of God. 

                   And when the storm passes,

                   after water has poured down

                   our faces and dribbled beyond

                   our understanding, I believe

                   the wind will feel more real

                   and tug at our wet white sleeves  

                   and dissolve our pretty songs and

                   the artful candle flames we thought

                   we needed to understand.

                   We will soon be cradled,

                   as if by nursing mothers

                   after hard labor, waiting

                   as one for first light.    

                  

                   8-12-11