Pinwheel

April 24, 2011 § Leave a comment

Easter Sunday, we sing in white dresses

in church pews, our hands resting

on the wooden backs in front of us.

.

And somewhere between the organ’s chords

I close my eyes to become a child

running through all the lace and white

with a pinwheel, its colors glinting.

.

Everyone else pauses –

then they reach toward each other 

to find hands, to move out

of pews and down rows.

.

The floor widens. 

Skirts spin into brighter hues,

and the men laugh their deep laughs.

The women’s hair shines in the sun.

.

Children hold ribbons and weave in and out

of the crowd, shouting. Awash in songs

we all know, in harmony and waves.

.

No one stops to point out joy or tell how

to seek and share it, because no one needs to.

.

Because You are here.

.

You are the light through the stained glass,

the swish of fabric and the flush of cheeks.

.

You are the child’s soft hand-hold, the old woman’s twirl,

the preacher’s hymn, the girl’s dancing shoes.

.

You are the cross on the wall and

the pine tree from which it was carved.

.

You are the door, flung open.

You are the wind turning the wheel.

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