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A Visit With Nana



By the hand was I down shaded streets
where flowers then grew with sidewalks swept.
“Good morning Bishop”, said she with humbled voice.
His kindly eyes returned the gifted nod.

Summer steps to Nana’s special place . . .
Lotion smell of softened skin while
I with mincemeat cookie for the trip
and a promise for puzzles later-on.

The shortcut made, when childish eyes beheld
the chiseled ghosts who look from spirals high
with silent voice before their saintly stare.
I squeeze the hand of one who feels my fear.

“We’ll make a visit”, whispering low.
My pull too weak thru vaulted, oaken doors
then touch the water's edge as was her way
toward cavern darkness bathed in shards of blue.

Heaven high the painted ceiling faces heard
the songs that played with crystal beads on wooden pews
and echoed reverent murmured voices hushed
with silent words of love to ones she knew.

Thru halls of marble dance the rainbow fires
of votive candles warmed within my reach.
A coin, then touch the wick for color glow.
Genuflect and so depart from shadows to the sun.

The gentle journeys gone . . . the Saints no longer stare.
Cathedral visits guide my way.
I often find her there.

(In memory of visits to Rosary Cathedral with gramma Elsie Fox - 1956)


Bob Sulier

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