where 2 or 3 gather
Fields of grain, hip high
waving in the hot breeze that moves them
back and forth overÂ
130 fingertips
Nimble fingers, grasping
rope-callused or
ink-stained
dusty
with sweat tracks where they have wiped at
foreheads streaked with dirt.
Foreheads wrinkledÂ
with squinting in the noonday sun.
Laughter, carried over
the swaying grain, reaching
ears less merry than these.
âLook!â
âLook!â
âLookâ
It isnât lawful.â
He turns
in time to see
and ample head of grain land
squarely in Johnâs mouth.
James cheers and Peter
rolls his eyes.
âI tell youââ
His eyes are soft
unfathomable depths
that seem to swallow
everything
and hold itâ
âI tell youââ
and now Peter, too
is laughingâ
âTruly
I tell you,
something greater than the temple
is here.â
