Pilgrim Stones

Let the slickness of soap

on your hands remind you

of what a holy and pleasing

thing it is to sweat and ache,

and start again.

Let the chill of rain that

catches you by surprise

baptize your skin with 

good news that you’re still 

alive and vulnerable.

Let the disruption of plans

that were certain at your

breakfast table be a kind of

sacramental detour into

the blistered hands of God

which are wilder and more 

tender than even poets

or prophets can imagine.

Against all the bucketed,

piled up odds, you’ve survived,

arrived at the feast of another 

day, trespassed against the

bitter-weeded boundaries

of death and darkness.

Let the weight of this

alight on you and open

you like a gate into the

curves and contours of

harvest fields sight-lined

with ancient markers

of grace.