| Rain tick tocks in the downspouts. |
| We rise to ordinary time too soon returned. Yellow buses take children away |
| to periodic tables, uncomfortable desks. |
| Bad news arrives on the gravel, wrapped in plastic |
| These last four days of wonder, always lost. |
| Before the parade has ended, we are halfway home |
| preparing to steer our little barks of resolution |
| out into a new sea as deep and unpredictable as the old. |
| We hover on the edge of epiphany. |
| In a pasture a shepherd will pause and reflect |
| on his solitary life surrounded by wool, and ancient |
| kings yield up treasure to a boy gathering stones. |
| All kinds of miracles will display their wares |
| disguised as clothespins or piano keys. |
| No one will ask, what is the purpose of my life? |
| In a sudden burst of certainty, Julian shouts |
| from her window in the 14th century, "All shall be well!" |
| Be within shouting distance. For this moment, |
| be exactly who you are, holy and aflame. |
Marilyn Robertson was a northern California poet and folksinger who brought traditional songs and stories into elementary school classrooms when this poem appeared.
This appears in the January 2004 issue of Sojourners
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