On Sunday mornings
in the great City of God
do they let you fly fish, Jim?
Can you cast your line with a quick
turn of the wrist and remember
peace on earth or the closest
that we ever came?

And is it true that
you can see rainbow-speckled
trout and those of us down here
missing you but so grateful, too,
on Sunday mornings to have stood
in your river if only
for a little while?

On Sunday mornings
I don pretend wading boots,
venture farther every week
from holy baptismal waters
into clear, cold, unfamiliar
streams where I can feel again
peace, like your river.