As the day waned
the carillon at St. Patricks rang
the lamenting tones
that the minstrels sang
when Elizabeth reigned.
Grass made the stains
on the sleeves of a maid
who laid in a meadow
with a man whose love
she refused, a sorrow
that still clings to the song.
And I remembered
the church in the desert
my father designed,
named for St. Margaret.
His buildings were mostly
the kind you'd probably ignore,
medical dental offices in a strip mall,
or bank branches.
But that one soars,
a high ceiling supported
by hammer truss beams,
and light reflected from the flanks
of the mountains behind it
bathe the apse and the nave
and the chancel.
Most of my life I've lived in places
named after saints. I can't claim
to have honored their names,
but I hope the only stains that I've made
are the ones left by making love
in spring's new grass.
No comments:
Post a Comment