Fervid, no amount of toil seemed to sate
a conglomerate of moving, bending
bodies all preoccupied with one faith;
make the mountain worthy, climb it for rest.
The pastor’s angst was understandable
and later rendered unnecessary
by the bishop’s homily, it was love
that bound the presences and even those
whose absence was to culminate in one
embrace. The church arose alive and well;
the priests and servers, deacon, ministers,
the readers, offerors and canticlers
stormed heaven with their silent insistence
and again stormed it with a reverence
their hearts and minds and mouths could not contain
therefore released. In love. And praise. And thanks.
The sanctuary, lit by light, did not
surprise. It only glowed and seemed to shine
like sun and moon and stars in broad daylight
a mirror probably of all the smiles
and tears reluctant and restrained but not
for long. A cornucopia could not have
contained a copious joyful treasury
and everything synonymous to glad.
To ebb, euphoria has to take it easy
yet not rest until its second wind.
There is a truth that gladness guarantees
in brief recall of consecrated bliss.
ABRAHAM DE LA TORRE