March 23, 1991|By Bill Jones

I remember the smell and touch

of altar wax, the hot flash then

soothing peeling off, and I

still see the glinting

monstrance with the two-inch host,

bound in gilt sun rays.

Incense still fills my senses

as do ringing bells

at the host's greatest height --

holy, holy, holy.

I hear my grandmother's clicking beads,

her whistling, whispered prayers.

The purple Lenten vestments

yet caress my face

as I try to burrow

back into that sacred time

when God still came to Earth

for all His simple children.

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