Witness

Before I knew
how to collect jaspilite
rather than toss it deep into the lake,

before I could tender every thought
with a silent prayer,
I was baptized.

They say I can return
to that sacred memory
if I just close my eyes.

I try to imagine the water
trickling out of serpentine fingers
and landing as a promise on my tiny head.

But the cross is an ashy witness,
the stained glass casts nostalgic whispers 
I see dimly but not in full.

It is only when I enter the lake
that my greatest muscle seizes
and sends blood rushing to the ends of my bones.

Deep calls to deep.
My body sends echoes to its kin.

It is then that   
I remember my baptism
and cherish my salvation.

In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
water is my witness.