It doesn’t have to be Sunday
when you suit up for the pulpit in your purple robe
the embroidered golden cross stitched down the front
Reminder of the crucifixion and the possibility that Jesus
and all his miracles still have juice
if you take the leap and believe

Or in your sermon
Where you look us sleepy parishioners straight
in the eye and demonstrate
that women, gay women, gray haired women won
because they weren’t afraid to fight

It can be when nobody’s looking
You rest your head against your lover’s shoulder
on a drowsy afternoon on the dune
Tell her she’s an angel
that you love to hear high notes ring
past the rafters, past all cares

It can be kept in your smile
The same smile you had as a girl
when you stepped from rock to rock in spring fed springs
that ran through your family farm

It can be in a hug, a handshake, a simple hello
Where you freely pass on your knowledge
of the love of God

Jacqueline Moss shares a sunrise office with seagulls and egrets at the East Quogue town dock on the Shinnecock Bay. There she picks up her messages from air, sea and sky.