Jesus at the Door

I do not walk the Stations

of the Cross alone,

I think, as I pass

Simon of Cyrene,

Veronica and her cloth,

the soldiers,

the Marys,

the people on the streets.

Somewhere in the distance

there is the sound of nails

being hammered into the cross,

and even in the heat of day,

a chill runs through me.

I am not alone.

Outside, midafternoon,

the sun so high

and nearly summer strong,

turning the sky a blinding

white—but there drifting

in front of me, another king,

a monarch butterfly,

all oranges and blacks,

flitting along the path,

lingering here and there,

pausing and then drifting again

seemingly at random,

landing on this blade of grass,

on this piece of clover,

before finding its way

back to the path

and walking with me

and past

Simon of Cyrene

and Veronica and her cloth,

the soldiers,

the Marys,

the people on the streets,

before landing at the feet of Jesus.

And suddenly, I can hear it,

the sound of hammering

is the sound of knocking,

and it is Jesus at the door.