Thursday, May 14, 2009


We thank you --
every Sunday --
for feeding us in these holy mysteries;
we gather at your table
to peck at your grain
and drink your finest port
like pigeons
waiting for a handout,
forgetting all the while
that these ARE mysteries:
that somehow there is always enough;
that somehow what has been set aside for us
is always consumed;
and that the words,
however quickly spoken and echoed,
each cradle a universe of meaning and blessing,
both meant for all,
and for each of us alone.

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