Poetry

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Maybe just in the spiritual relm
at the end of the day
after moving in the Spirit
before tucking into the sheets where you lay.

Perhaps an imprint is found
on the pillow of your bed.
Nobody makes a shrine out of
what looks like a sketch of Christ's head.

Maybe when you washed your face
before you went to sleep,
on a towel that you blotted dry
was the moist shape that God found sweet.

Maybe the towel of that Server
who washed your dusty feet,
saw the tracks He wanted to make
after He rubbed your calloused heal clean.

So with softened heart you took your towel out
and entered some obscure village
and found a fellow sufferer whose sweat and dirt
toweled forth a scene of God's true image.

*I don't know if the story of Veronica is true,
but it can be inspiring.

H. Stone © 2005

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