Observation

a poem for Ross Gay. WARNING: don't read if you haven't done today's Spelling Bee

Liturgy was the panagram
in a popular word puzzle today
and honestly I should have solved it
sooner. Yesterday was the first Sunday
of Lent, which I only know because
an artist I love posted about pączki on Tuesday.

I am no longer observant.
I no longer observe.
Which is a fitting word, since
I never did much more than watch,
winter chill seeping through my tights,
the rustle of my dress against the pew between movements.
Sit. Stand. Kneel. Sit again.
I watched my mother watch the priest.
He spoke of ashes and death, suffering
and deprivation.
I waited
to understand. To feel holy.
Whole.
He smudged a cross of ashes on my forehead.

I waited.

What did I know then? What did I know
of the dome of the sky beyond the roof of the church?

the clouds

the sun

the warble of sandhill cranes

stretched out

in wobbly lines

shifting

guiding

wings pumping them

home.

It would be many, many years before I learned that
sacredness is to see
the world.