It is not that I have come
in retrospect to doubt
the tongues of flame,
or even the presence
of the Holy Spirit—
though our ability to hear
a voice in our own language
does seem less and less
a miracle as time goes on.
I begin to understand,
however, that such a moment
changes obdurate thought
no more than rose petals
dropped from the ceiling
during mass transform
those on whom they land.

And no less either.
Some rocks erode
faster than we do, and yet
we are eroded from within,
beneath our seeing, until
one day we find ourselves
permeable, open.

appeared in the fall 2007 issue of The South Carolina Review