I have been working on a cycle of poems on the mysteries of the Holy Rosary. Here is the poem for Pentecost.
He was an unpredictable prophet,
but prophets are like that—first thundering
then all tender and kind. They kept wondering
about the contradictions: a king yet
a criminal, a wise man but a fool.
They watched him die, then gingerly reached out
to touch his radiant wounds. There was no doubt.
Then he was gone, and they remained watchful
waiting here in the silent heat. No one broke
the expectant mood. A child sang. All were mute
nurturing every memory and thought.
Then a sweet burning smell—a wisp of smoke
like incense curled through the room. A bright gust surged.
A window crashed open in the wind.
They clung together as fear swept their mind.
A sudden ecstasy burned and purged,
infusing the summer afternoon
with the potent enthusiasm of fire—
like the first small flame on a funeral pyre
or a lamp lit in a vast and darkened room