Under the Cistine Umbrella
A breeze shakes the pine and "tap, taps" come in a fast, hard sheet, insistent. I sip green tea. Watch the steam rise. Look out at the bare forsythia, jeweled in strings of liquid pearls. The thorn bush drips with crimson teardrop berries. Snow in and around the English ivy is pocked from falling rain.
Above me, the finger of God reaches for Adam's hand. I remove my glove, slip my palm beyond umbrella shelter, wait. Remarkable how long it takes. For a drop to splash onto my skin.
At last You reach down, touch me. I sip Your bounty, a quick, tiny cold drink. And sigh. Under the Cistine umbrella.