Most memories are impressionistic --
we fill in details we've long since lost.
And so it is with St. Paul's at Easter,
when I remember the flower-filled cross.
The flowers weren't there when service began --
the empty cross somber, made of black mesh.
And then at some point we filled it with color --
with tulips and daffodils fragrant and fresh.
I remember that people with gardens
carried their blooms with especial pride,
as they processed down the center aisle,
asplash with color, but dignified.
I remember the spaces filling --
the black mesh replaced with purple and gold,
and thinking few sights I ever would see
could be so glorious to behold.
I don't remember what hymn was played
each year in the service as we processed,
or what other blossoms covered the cross,
or even what offering I possessed.
The details are not what matter the most --
I'm not even sure they matter at all.
The cross made alive with vibrant color
is all that I really need to recall.
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Author Notes
Since it's the first day of spring and my mind is upon the spring flowers that aren't yet blooming on this cold day, I decided to post this poem written a couple Easters ago about the most beautiful ritual I've ever seen in a church.
St. Paul's is no longer my congregation, but this memory of it is the best one I have of it other than my wedding.
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