Speaking plainly of this brilliant morning,

The sun rising in a clear sky,

The lingering snow yearning,

I fancy, for its melting touch,

We walk Cathedral Drive to the rock

Where an “Our Father,” an “Our Mother,”

An “Our Great Mystery,” is said.

Daring to glance at the sun, it is

Entirely obvious why no more

Is permitted. And clear as well

Why the sun would be worshipped:

The giver of life, the rising of daily hope.

But now we are otherwise enlightened.

We know better: the wonder of it

Has been understood to a degree.

And the rest,

Is now just a matter of time.