Cathedral
It was not the remains
of the men that
died in the Alamo,
the lit candles,
the likeness of
Pope John Paul,
or the warmth in
the cathedral.
It was not the sun
after days of rain,
the yellow flowers,
or the girl in the
white dress.
It was not even
the two men
drinking beer in
the plaza.
It was the nun
standing some
distance from
the wedding party
with a smile on
her face.
It was
the monarch
butterfly in the
yellow flowers.
It was the men
that stopped
putting the lights
in the oak tree to
let us pass under
it to our car.
I opened a
plastic bottle of
water and I had to smile.
