Each baroque cubby-chapel has a half-moon
window—yellow panels, delicate tracings
of painted white swirls—but what catches
my eye each morning:                                   
                                        God’s tracings,
branches outside, ghostly motion,
enough bright Roman sun to evoke
a far-off time, perhaps a time of war
(what time isn’t) where places like
this church, tucked in a neighborhood
off the Via Veneto,  were havens
for those hidden from boots
pounding pavement nearby, fists
pounding on doors.
                
Perhaps a quiet cloister in the sun
was one instant of peace,
one heartbeat of hope.
I imagine God
as much be-
yond this slice
of color, light
and shadow,
as on the marble altar,
below the toiling Spanish farmer
frozen in dark oils,
himself sowing
hope and life.