Wash Feet

Wake on a Holy Thursday from dreams of birthing babies to gray skies and tree blossoms, pink and soft, unfurling.

Watch your small son eye wind-tossed wildflowers, pressing his forehead to the window, and imagine the worlds he inhabits, holds.

Notice the curves of his feet, wrinkled like overlapping petals, nestled with patterns never once made until he became.

Feel your womb waters turn as your baby stirs those small tides; the strain of connected bodies when the closeness grows heavy; the sorrow of inevitable separation.

Carry the melancholy of spring rain on green grass, smelling the decay in each story of failure that foddered fresh growth.

Pray for children, present and future, whose knowledge of what can be comes to us as heralded Reign clouds, a perfect storm to part the dark and cleanse with light.

Recall the spiritual mandate to wash feet as you draw a bath, place your son inside the large basin, pour water across his shoulders, and offer gratitude that this moment is salvational.

Breathe into your belly, to your baby, to abate your fear of the death that always comes when you break open, to bring inspiration, to begin again for your children.

Close the ritual of the lived day by lighting a candle, laying your body to rest, folding your hands, closing your eyes, and letting the dark bury you.

Rise once more, your heart a bud.