Feeding Pigeons In Saint Peter’s Square
We rise early before the sun
bounces out of bed, slipping behind gray
clouds to light St. Peter’s Square
standing there surrounded by statuesque
apostles and saints, popes and martyrs
we feel small, foreign, strangely
out of place, expecting any
moment to see the heavens
open, a ray to glance down
on Paul or Peter, certainly not
Jesus, more than likely someone
unknown like Norberto or
Tibaldo, Costanza or Pietro
Nolasco, Atanasio, Andrea,
Filippo Neri or Giovanni,
enkindling marble,
enlivening sightless eyes,
lubricating mute tongues
enlivening sightless eyes,
lubricating mute tongues
to condemn our Protestant heresies,
prophesy against our tennis
shoes and Bermuda shorts,
shoes and Bermuda shorts,
pronounce us unfit,
unwelcome to stand on ground
venerated by ecclesiastical royalty,
we turn slowly, surrounded
by God’s lions unsmiling,
preternaturally still,
Instead comes an old man
and two girls, one with a pacifier
clutched firmly between her teeth,
they lead a kit of pigeons all underfoot,
cooing birds, giggling girls, old
man offering seeds to his accomplices
swinging arms toddler stiff, sowing
chaos among the all-too-busy
pigeons as we watch, bemused,
Everyone speaks Italian, giggles and
squeaks in Italian, coos and gurgles in
Italian, so I cannot not be sure,
But I think I hear a wisp of
Latin, a blessing for a clutch of
slow-tongued Baptists
Latin, a blessing for a clutch of
slow-tongued Baptists
“Dei plena sunt omnia”
R. Mark Grace
Photo Credit: Mark Grace
Photo Credit: www.crosscards.com
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