Faith

 

Some day, if we’re lucky, amateur historians

(or archaeologists if we’re not)

will lead the children of Metz

through the ornate portals

into the hush and cool of the cathedral.

They will say, “Once a sea spread 

across the continent from Rejkyavik 

to Constantinople. From Helsinki to Gibraltar. 

The sea was deep and it was all

the people living here had ever known.”

Kind of like in the old joke, when the older fish

swims past and asks, “How’s the water, boys?” 

And they say, “Sometimes it’s ice cold 

and sometimes it’s searing hot

but we would die without it.”

And then the tide receded, leaving 

the seashells of cathedrals to dry: 

each one unique, a miracle 

of nature, spiky armor meant to defend 

our fleshy parts against predation.