Sprinkle holy water
on a gravestone
and every transgression
is divinely resolved.
Redemption, they say,
derives from a priest.
But this afternoon
I walk a different path
to genuflect in the grace
of moth and worm,
the tightly shut petals
of the hesitant astor lily.
Deeper into the woods,
a whickering owl’s
mournful screech, causes
me to pass my hand
over my heart
in a kind of blessing.
I wait for what seems to be
a skip in my pulse or
an angel passing.   Fey
to still believe
in such creatures I know.
But for a moment
I am certain I’ve returned
to my wanton ways,
recaptured my sins,
the pungent roots of them,
with no intention of ever
surrendering them up.

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