Once upon a time,
in the smokiest church
during mud season,
while hotel whistlers
and taxi horns
blew notes into the wind,
Signore Allegri looked
down from heaven
through roof, blue ceiling,
golden stars, and smoke.
He smiled as the sound
of the choir rose in greeting.

Because I do not hope
to turn and see quizzical faces,
in the choir, on Fifth Avenue,
or the commuter train
home from Grand Central,
because I cannot imagine a
more revolutionary, happy act
on the day of ash and dust,
because I look forward to such every year,
yet fear it was once, for all time,
as those best things often are,

Because I hope that time is always time:
enough time to finish the unfinished
yet remain open, playful,
loving, and compassionate –
I rejoice in all things, still,
and in all still things; and
I rejoice, having had two dots
and a curved line below them
placed upon my forehead,
in church on Ash Wednesday.

*Apologies to tse