A broken tulip

The last time I stood in church before corona virus unfurled around us I saw the smoke of incense

rise clearer, denser, than before. It hung in the air before the gilded icons, before the gold glinting off Father H’s purple robes. It lifted slowly, so slowly,

loosely shaking itself up

then stalled, hovering at eye level, gray, visible. I traced the soft edges with my eyes wondering why they formed so

wondering how our eyes can see smell. The priest swung the censer as he paced the perimetres of the sanctuary as we turned to face him, face the incense, in all the directions of the compass

swing, swing, swing

 Hear our prayers, O God, we chant. The cry billows out and around, floats above the red carpet, fills the aisles.

swing, swing, swing

until between the stained glass windows and us stands a swaying gray wall. I watched, watched, the shape of it trying to impress on my mind’s eye

the sharp sweetness, the soft smudging which loosened, edgeless, hanging all across the front of the sanctuary like an embrace

the shape of our prayers, ascending, ascended, stuck

between us and him. We chanted the old words

which teach us the contours of the face

which walked through death/who joined us to his flesh/who now walks with us/through death.

The shape of his prayers, slow billowing, falling over his feet, around his throne,

down to us who wait with him and who ask, humble, for mercy in the face of death, who pray, again, for good

to touch each face in this town, this country, for heaven to come to the aid of broken earth, to take in its arms the torn cosmos. He took a body to be joined

to us, to our world, to save unto wholeness, all in Himself.

Are not our prayers for healing, for wholeness, one more way of breathing Come quickly, Lord Jesus?