Sunday in Rome

Having defied, for our first two days in Rome,

The insidious nagging of inevitably unavoidable jet lag

(That gravity time exerts on those of us humans

Who, through hubris, obtuseness, or innocence,

Assume ourselves to be exempt from mortality's corporeality),

We finally surrendered to the luxuriant quiet of Saturday evening,

Submitted our tired bodies to their deep need for sleep,

Let the whirlwind in which we spent all yesterday,

Touring the city's antique pagan world

(Its ruins of fortification walls, the Coliseum, and the Forum)

And its Christian legacy of piazza churches and fountains

(Bequeathed its Renaissance believers,

By Michelangelo, Raffaello, Caravaggio, Bernini, and Borromini),

Culminating in the massive, ultimate earthly tribute to God,

The Papal Basilica of St. Peter, within the Vatican...

Let those iconic visions and insights, so widely cast,

Gradually wind down, settle down silently, sift softly down,

To mingle with our dream dust,

Keep the waking hour at protracted bay, past late, later than late,

Until our bones and flesh rose from fatigue's embrace,

Ready to give our hearts' carpe diem free rein,

To quest for the source of this Sunday morning's angelus,

Follow the bells, ringing from every campanile

(A ubiquitous pealing of the glories of the Lord),

To the holy soul of Rome's solemn and joyful day of rest.

And so it is, as we descend the 136 well-worn steps

Below San Trinità dei Monti, to Piazza di Spagna,

Then head north, on Via dei Babuino,

Sacred reverberations filling our spirits with delicate yearning

For the serenity that exceeds peace, peace serenity,

That we go slowly, hand cradling hand, tenderly, reverentially,

Entering every house of worship along the way,

Tasting of excerpts from the New Testament's mysteries,

As spoken by sacerdotal interpreters of the Word,

Partaking of voices hymning divinity note by contrite note...

Go, in unhurried abandon, toward Piazza del Popolo,

Where we pause, on our pilgrimage, for leisurely repast —

Fresh strawberries, kiwis, melons, and grapefruit —

Staring at the square's twin Santa Maria churches, marveling,

Before resuming our walk to the core of the Lord's grace.

And now, in a moment of pure ecstatic exultation,

Walking southerly, along Via del Corso,

We enter the doors of the Basilica of Saints Ambrose and Charles,

Are absorbed by its palpable sacrosanct aura,

And disappear into the marbled majesty of its vast spaces,

So ornately decorated with a silver reliquary,

Paintings of Jesus, Mary, apostles, prophets, and saints,

Golden mosaics, bronze sconces, haloed votives,

And stark, sweeping arches hovering in humble devotion to its dome —

A cruciform refuge oblivious to the din of tourists on the streets.

For what might be half an hour as easily as a trinity of eons,

We sit on a wooden prayer bench, at the far end of the nave,

Our spirits kneeling, lost in a shared revelation,

Realizing that but for God's charity, we wouldn't be here,

We two, so unknown to each other a mere year ago,

Humbly saying praises for our adoration's good fortune,

Sharing, in this sanctuarial font of art, culture, and religion,

The coruscations of the Lord God's eternal light,

Emanating from our faith in faith,

Which connects the ethereal, from above, with our earthly love.

08/09/10 - (1)