We count the beads of being hanging round
our necks like so many monks numbering
the knots on their ropes, fingering the nodules
of prayer. Ours are teardrops touching memories,
raw reliquaries of unresolved conflicts,
unrequited emotions, reprisals regretful
for their petty motivations. Some are globules
we've never understood, actions that we can't
quite admit or reconcile with who we have become.
Others are spheroids of incompletion, efforts
begun and aborted, evidence of our lack
of courage and resolve. Yet some are startlingly
perfect in form and symmetry. We look at them
and wonder at the way they touch the holy other.
We gaze at the reflection in their florescence,
and we bend our knees to the touch of blessing.