I cannot recall a single word he spoke, but I
remember the clouds in the window at the top of the chapel;
how they, like great masses of gladness, leapt
from one joy to another, shape shifting
like the kindest of witches,
and changing again, even as I noticed
them. They splashed like children in the
blue sea of the sky, captivating my attention
by their lavish embrace of the golden
droplets of the sun. They scampered from one side
of the snowy glass to the other and then
disappeared so gradually I didn’t notice
they were slipping away until they were gone entirely, leaving me
with a secret taped over the video still playing in the darkened room:
that God delights in hearing simple prayers whispered
to the sky, even if they are only about the weather.
