Trumpet vines in the church gardens,
a halo of orange over the St Francis statue
where I converse with Dad on Sundays and
Holy Days. Birds hover on the fence, wait
to bless themselves in the font below the
Saint’s feet. Cabbage white butterflies
flit from trumpet to trumpet, collecting
their sacrament of nectar.

Light breezes carry the voice of angels
humming a choir of hymns, their wings
ruffle leaflets of rose bushes burgeoning
heavy heads of blooms; they bow under
their own weight, kneel to scatter velvet
petals to an altar of impatiens below.

A butterfly, feet sticky with pollen,
lands in the chalice of St Francis’ hand,
wings beat a slow hallelujah, graceful
takeoff, visitations to all the blossoms.

I chuckle, look up to heaven, tell my dad
his gardening skills have improved,
the flowers are breathtaking, the birds,
bees, and butterflies languish in gratitude.
I feel his soft reply on my cheek, barely
felt, but I know his hands held mine,
clasped in prayer.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2021 Hour 20


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