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.