We have put you on a pedestal,
scattered petals at your marble feet.
Entombed now in stone,
once their warm flesh danced in Cana
and blistered, treading dusty roads,
following your son, waiting to see
how the world would kill him.

We are spiritual entomologists,
with nets and jars of Latin
trying to pin you down—
just as we seek to suffocate
anything that flies in joy—
killing your essence in hopes of keeping
something iconic for ourselves.

Today, I capture your smile.
In the centre of lectio,
I see you alive and gleaming,
whirling at the wedding.
Not quite free of care—
your patient pondering
knew there was pain to come—
I see your laughing eyes and start:
because they are His.