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.