It had been a particularly,

bitter, cold winter

as remembered by anyone

whatever the case.

 

Hot-house flowers

stood tall in the clear,

blue, blown glass

vase,

 

sitting on the table

between the chalice and

cup where communion

in their home

takes place.

 

The guests brought the

flowers, the hostess put

them in that sacred

space,

 

and everyone there,

wondered when the flowers

would grow in any,

outdoor, earthy

place

 

apparently, far

enough north to

be, not quite, beyond

God’s grace

 

even though those

who live in that place

and worship in

that place

 

began to wonder

about God’s

grace

 

until the thermometer

eventually hit 70.

.