Catechism

I have swayed on the back of an elephant

And now you want me to climb on a jackass?

Try to be serious.—Mirabai

i

In the explosion of the still and small

in the country church,

under the pounding childhood words,

the windows, stained-glass and sturdy,

blossom to roses.

ii

In the candlight of midnight on Christmas Eve,

the flame walks out the door with me,

under the ringing carillon,

into the first snow,

every single flake, cold, burning.

iii

Under the Northern Lights in our town,

my father’s finger points

to what is unknown.

He tells us what science thinks.

His telescope sights on the rings of Saturn

and a visible galaxy or two, Andromeda,

and the craters of the moon.

Questions, he said, are more important

than answers. Not I am, but who am I?

iv

What lies out there beyond

the blue planet’s spin,

this place we call home?

Who among us is made of light?

What percent of the human body is water?

How does the electron dance—particle, or wave?

Why does the drum beat?

What spreads sun into rays over the pines,

circles the moon with an aura?

Why nine months? Why four score and ten?

Where do you go when I shut my eyes?

What have I done? Forgive me.