They rise to the occasion,

the ones you called

to a come-to-Jesus–(minus the Jesus)–and,

truly,

they break bread and drink wine.

With you.

For the first time.

Mountains of stone become sand.

Standing centuries diminish to an hour:

Movement.

You initiated it and

rise, they do;

an occasion

holding both

life

and death

because, really, how damned much time

do we have?

Really.

Grapes, and the blessing,

the bleeding,

of injury and heart,

must not be

wasted.

Moments of chance,

swim up

to our lightly closed fists.

Let the bright, fluid young creatures in.

This may be the last.

And nothing like living waters

ushers in a new year.

Upwelling.