I saunter into Holy Waters

see a gaggle of women

laughing at a dark table

in the corner. Notice

the habit.

She took a vow

of poverty

devotion

and every 3rd Thursday

is a religious experience,

a testament –

a shared past.

As she congregates

with sisters

lifting the goblet

to hold it to the light;

seeking clarity,

they allow the conversation

to unfold

as gab pursues perfection.

The wine is holy, anointed

on a Good Friday

vibrant yet mature,

bottled with a complex

history of pleasure.

She imbibes

this heavenly nectar,

cherishing the sip.

A velvet finish

flits its lingering impression

on her lips

while sisters swallow

complexities,

they worship this ritual of sharing

layered in whispers

and low giggles.

How could I not

have a glass or two?