Consecration

I chase you up the maple tree
in our backyard, scrambling
over twisted limbs.
I lose you in leaves
catching only glimpses of pink toes,
following squeals and giggles
as they tumble down through branches.

Near the top
I wrap my legs around a thick arm
of the maple tree and scoot like a gymnast
towards the trunk.
You peak your head out of the owl hole,
grey bark caught in your curly hair.
I scream, as there are bugs on your arm,
but you just laugh and brush them off.

We sit on the end a branch,
feet hanging in the air
like drawstrings off a faded attic
hatch-door. Below the monk walks through
the scratch grass by the river,
blessing almost everything he sees.
Dressed in pure white under a brown
coat, he bends one knee to touch his antlers
to the stones, to the grass, to the bank
of the river.
Holy stones, holy grass, holy river bank.

You try to see it as it happens
but the holy
jumps too fast from his bone-crown
to the thing itself.
All I can see is the monk
dipping his face down
to the river, as if he were
simply drinking it in.