Beseeching Mary
Within the weighty door, weary souls went;
as did I as a child of eight, to the silent sentience within…
Upon the stoutest oak they sat, worrying beads.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,”
The penitants, the prayerfull, the pitiful, rock.
The innocent observations of childhood.
Inward stares, upcaste eyes, open hearts, rock.
“Blessed art thou amongst women
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb…”
Beside masterpieces of goldleaf raised plaster pain,
they walk, worrying, burnished beads;
mindful of His journey “…Jesus.”
Each has a path they walk, weighted weary souls.
Yet, they remember in their hearts
His path and it’s toll.
The child in me remembers this in wonder.
Besceeching Mother Mary
to lift their weight, their toll. The Child in me
knows Mary.
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