The Priest
Yesterday,
the father,
in the soft brown shroud of peace,
blessed the rosary
I got in your honor.
A Franciscan priest,
a man of the mission,
placed his warm hand
over mine
and the crystal clear string of beads.
In a soft voice
that chimed with the stillness
of the eternal masters, he
let me know not to worry about you. NOT ONE IOTA.
And as the mission light
sprayed into the door,
riding the coat tails of California morning fog,
he told me.....
that it was us,
the living,
that needed a prayer.
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