Birthing Saints

Riding on a Vespa, up the rolling hills to the cold forest.

There is a little place by a clear flowing creek for us.

A picnic of red wine and soft, brie cheese, a communion.


We walk hand in hand, spring still harsh before noontime.

The soft and golden light sneaks through the just budding branches.

Illuminated angels trying to crawl into the dark human heart.


Her hand is warm and soft in mine. I hold hers tight. I hold her close.

The babbling and laughing brook is near, and we unpack our basket.

In silence, we eat and drink, our things mingling in the air, birthing saints.


We cuddle close, full and warm and content, trusting in touch and grace.

She looks up, and she smiles and touches me face. I am not afraid.

I kiss her head, so full of golden and silky hair.


We go to the water’s edge. We drink from the creek. We remember.

We baptize each other by the sprinkling of water, making us whole again.

We hold each other close, clinging to the faith that we are indeed new and clean.

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