Entering here, I hope the confetti
Can jazz up a burden
The pastor, for instance, calling birds, head back,
Or dancing an old French dance, hopping and kicking.
And now the congregation winds around the chancel,
Carrying damp, strapping forsythia sprigs, slanting them into a vase
Beside the kotoist, her song plucked and bent, a few blossoms raining on the strings.
God's weather today—sandals in puddles.
The moment of silence—raindrops on the roof, no comment
On the matter of God.