There appeared to them tongues as of fire,
resting on each one of them. ACTS 2:3
Before, I laid aside the water jug.
Now you are dead, I wear a long,
blue skirt, thin sandals, knowing
they will not warm me, step into
the shallow creek, cold water current
like tongued fire licking at my ankles
—as if I need only to keep wading
slowly deeper, until my whole body
is under, numbed, submerged by
shadows—until the sunlight kicks in.