Pinwheel

Easter Sunday, we sing in white dresses

in church pews, our hands resting

on the wooden backs in front of us.

And somewhere between the organ’s chords

I close my eyes to become a child

running through all the lace and white

with a pinwheel, its colors glinting.

Everyone else pauses –

then they reach toward each other

to find hands, to move out

of pews and down rows.

The floor widens.

Skirts spin into brighter hues,

and the men laugh their deep laughs.

The women’s hair shines in the sun.

Children hold ribbons and weave in and out

of the crowd, shouting. Awash in songs

we all know, in harmony and waves.

No one stops to point out joy or tell how

to seek and share it, because no one needs to.

Because You are here.

You are the light through the stained glass,

the swish of fabric and the flush of cheeks.

You are the child’s soft hand-hold, the old woman’s twirl,

the preacher’s hymn, the girl’s dancing shoes.

You are the cross on the wall and

the pine tree from which it was carved.

You are the door, flung open.

You are the wind turning the wheel.

Kinds of Honey