And so the sun stared down
Our backs, and we, hunched, focussed,
Counted out our beads, piled in glassy hives of
And so we strung a pattern, a story, with our
small glass beads.
But as always, he
Sat apart, slightly turned, and
Only when he revealed the final
Scintillating, labyrinthine pattern,
Only when his smile
Resonated in a thousand facets of light from
The resplendent rosary he held aloft,
Adorned with a myriad of stones,
Large, small, beautiful, all--
Did we acknowledge ourselves mere dilettantes.