Holy

 

Holy

Beeswax, His body -

wick, His soul - flame, His divinity;

my voice, soft and low,

eyes upon blessed candle,

lips caressing holy words,

my fingers familiar with beaded bone.

"Old family heirloom, a relic from the Holy Land."

Grandpa would wink (an antler he'd whittled),

but we allowed Grandma her antiquity

as she held me in her lap and told me

of relics: the holy grail, Eucharistic miracles,

incorrupt body of St. Bernadette...

and I, entranced, felt her breath on my neck,

her soft bosom better than any pillow,

and her voice, like incense, filled the room.

I pray from my heart; Mary brings the Trinity, 

and I relax into peace and hear 

Grandma singing with the angels.

by Margaret Bednar, October 21 

This is linked with "Poets & Storytellers United - About those bones"  

Write poetry or prose which explores where the bones in the poem below might've come from.  (poem written by https://magicalmysticalteacher.wordpress.com  HERE)

fingers framed by light
clutching an old rosary
carved of human bone