In faith, entering Notre Dame,
Our Lady -
a mother kneeling,
in one arm cradling the body
of her dead child,
its ashen skin illumined
by a thousand soldered shards
of colored glass...
She lit an ivory candle
topping the slender taper
with a flash, sobbing,
tears and wax dropping
beneath the Christless cross…
After some time, still weeping,
she rises, releasing the child
from the crook of her arm,
genuflects and leaves
amidst the wistful chants,
looking to the window of Apostles and Saints
lighted by the lens of a moon turning
like a sacred kaleidoscope
by the sovereign hand of chance.
end/Michael
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