Holy Water

At the far end of the cathedral, the font stands
like a beacon,
rich with promise,
a single drop of its water
a covenant of change, of transformation,
a benign magic
that is available anywhere, anytime
by a (not so) simple
opening of the heart.

Ah, but fickle souls that we are,
we need our symbols and signs
to believe we are
what we already are.

About this poem

We are blessed. We are loved. Whether we know it or not.

Tom