Habemus Papam

Black smoke billows
From the chimney,
High above Michelangelo’s vision,
Two hands reaching across the heavens
The holy finger seeking just one
To father his world.
The old men below bow and wonder,
Wait for a sign,
Perhaps each of them pondering
How his own feet
Might look in those red shoes.
Soon enough the smoke will blow white,
And words will ring out
Over Old St. Peter’s Square,
“Habemus papam!”
We will have a Pope, indeed,
Though this mere mortal too will age and die,
And his robed shoulders will not be enough
To hold the world.
Nuns and housewives will pray for him;
Jaded unbelievers will hope for a miracle,
Or at least a small blessing.
One may come.
But the great Hand overhead will still reach
Toward other hands below,
And maybe somewhere,
One will reach back,
Some Adam or Eve, a child of earth,
Chosen
To knit a little piece of the universe together,
To burn with love’s fire,
To be a star in a terrible darkness,
To sing a holy song.
And God will smile.