Snowboots

My boy sits beside me,

Orlando,
five years old.
His book.
Writing his name in the quiet and echoing
Church.
Whispering.
He wants to spell March.

I and the grown-ups around me

Pray.
They're all grown-ups.
Orlando waits
and reads his book, feet still enveloped in
Snowboots,
thick, heavy, wet, Iowa
Snowboots.

We break the bread and drink the

Wine.
We have ashes on our forehead in a cross.
The church is nearly silent, but Orlando kneels, chews his bread, walks back, and his boots make
Noise.