One time, in the middle... | James B Nicola
One time, in the middle of a foreign city,
I came upon, quite unexpectedly,
a quaint cathedral in a busy square.
I crept in and waddled down the aisle
between the rows of nearly empty seats
erected for a multitude not there
and as I arrived in front, as the vault
of the transept was higher than that of the aisle,
it seemed that in my lowly quiet
I, too, began to rise. Impressed
by the work of man, then,
and my experience of it, now,
I suddenly dropped
unintentionally
to my knees.
One time, touring on a bike in Normandy,
I came upon—and quite expectedly,
this time—a city of the dead
and a sea of markers: white crosses and stars
rising from the emerald of new-mown grass,
from me all the way to the horizon.
I dismounted the rented bike and paced a lane
between the rows of clean,
perfect, nearly uniform tombstones and,
overwhelmed by the work and presence
of man, both then and now,
and my experience of it,
I suddenly dropped
unintentionally
to my knees.
One time, in a mountain village,
after a rain, but unexpectedly,
a triple rainbow in the late blue sky
appeared. The multitude emerged
from shops and homes to the street
and was looking upward, as an unformed,
impromptu, gladly inconvenienced congregation,
their faces bathed by the lowering sun.
Suddenly aware of the presence
and work of someone other than man,
convulsing in a strange new joy,
wet from the rain-kissed ground as well as from
the joyous oil of tears that fell,
my soul dropped down, unintentionally,
to my knees, then on all fours, and finally
prostate on the ground
as if in supplication
but with nothing more I could think of
to ask for.
I came upon, quite unexpectedly,
a quaint cathedral in a busy square.
I crept in and waddled down the aisle
between the rows of nearly empty seats
erected for a multitude not there
and as I arrived in front, as the vault
of the transept was higher than that of the aisle,
it seemed that in my lowly quiet
I, too, began to rise. Impressed
by the work of man, then,
and my experience of it, now,
I suddenly dropped
unintentionally
to my knees.
One time, touring on a bike in Normandy,
I came upon—and quite expectedly,
this time—a city of the dead
and a sea of markers: white crosses and stars
rising from the emerald of new-mown grass,
from me all the way to the horizon.
I dismounted the rented bike and paced a lane
between the rows of clean,
perfect, nearly uniform tombstones and,
overwhelmed by the work and presence
of man, both then and now,
and my experience of it,
I suddenly dropped
unintentionally
to my knees.
One time, in a mountain village,
after a rain, but unexpectedly,
a triple rainbow in the late blue sky
appeared. The multitude emerged
from shops and homes to the street
and was looking upward, as an unformed,
impromptu, gladly inconvenienced congregation,
their faces bathed by the lowering sun.
Suddenly aware of the presence
and work of someone other than man,
convulsing in a strange new joy,
wet from the rain-kissed ground as well as from
the joyous oil of tears that fell,
my soul dropped down, unintentionally,
to my knees, then on all fours, and finally
prostate on the ground
as if in supplication
but with nothing more I could think of
to ask for.