[A Poem Each Day This Holy Week]
Water spilling through hands, mine,
Like all the other water of so many
Mornings and so many baths and showers,
And yet how extraordinary this ordinary water
For this water finds feet, yours,
My hand scooping tiny buckets
Over toes and tendons.
Than words, so much more than fears,
You are these feet, touching earth
And dust and climbing hills and stairs
And aching when day is done,
Dancing on Saturday night,
Surprising even yourself with rhythm.
Is there a sign, an indication
Of divine imagination,
More glorious, more goofy?
I'm noticing all this--as if for the first time--
Toenails, the little hair where the joints are!
Does it make any difference--
Toenails, the little hair where the joints are!
Does it make any difference--
To the rising and falling of kingdoms?
This water, this washing, this little way
Of loving and touching and praying
With hands--does it?
I really don't know--but your
Toes and tendons are the most
Amazing wonders I've seen
In a long, long while. Be good
To them.
