Easter Sunday

April 8th, 2007

The rain, though unexpected was calm, warm and wide.
The kind of rain that nourishes the earth and its souls.
Each drop was carefully placed upon a petal or a leaf.
Or on a dress of a girl who spent far too long pressing out its creases.
These girls in tempered perfection and these boys in worn-out suits
Enter their chapels with their empty cups
And sit with their legs crossed, cups with their eyes toward heaven
And the pulpit.

The speakers preach and, like a fountain,
Supply enough water to sustain a large army
Of resilient fighters.
The cups quickly reach their limit and, within minutes,
Their need is filled.
Runneth over.

And then there are those who carry large, heavy cauldrons.
They drag them to their chair and eagerly sit
with the vessel heaved on their laps.
The water enters from the fountain,
Sloshes around and begs for company.
The water that cannot fit in the cup
Finds a home in the cauldron.
It is never truly full.
If it gets close, the cauldron is lovingly replaced
with a larger model.

For water to flow in it. From it.