The water fountain
at All Saints Church
is built for children.
You stand in the nave
and look askance
down the hallway.
The fount beckons.
You resist—
you will look absurd
either bending
at the waist
or half-squatting
in your suit and tie
or, heaven forbid,
taking a knee.
You resist:
you swallow dryly,
a lump in your throat
complicating matters.
You can hardly breathe.
You have great thirst
but pride, that devil,
hinders you.
You resist,
and then a vision
comes to mind:
Rembrandt’s Jesus
turns wine to water
and kneels to hand
the cup to a child:
the breath of life.
Love persists.