
Courtesy Wikimedia Commons
In a cloudy Pennsylvania sky
He gestured at a bright spot in the gray—
“That is the sun” he shouted pointing high
“The S-O-N is better” —did he pray?
Almost as it seemed, but never quite,
Maybe waiting for us to begin—
Perhaps we would have—did the man invite?
If so the call seemed incomplete and thin
He should have said: “I’m praying to the Son
Who nursed the milk at Virgin Mary’s breast,
And even death by callous execution
Is better than the sun by which we’re blessed”
But made self-conscious by the man’s effusion
It was like standing at the crucifixion