The Triangle

The Triangle

See that over there by the corner of the shed?
Down where the sunshine stretches past the
untilled cornfield to cast a triangle of light,
brightening the yellow on the tulips and daffodils?

That triangle is my grandmother, long held
upon that red wall, staying there even after the
sun has traveled to other cultures, other religions.
On cloudless nights she would say “bless your heart.”

One day she told me that the triangle stood for
the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.
She wasn’t looking at the daffodils, but I was,
the ever-present yellow in my listening eyes.

Decades later, the sinner reaching for a single strand
of grace would be me, reaching towards the light in my mind,
stretching my fingertips into the triangle, my shadow
turning the bright yellow to a burning gold.

Many nights I have twisted blankets around my pillow,
but when I awoke, I saw the triangle, smiling at me,
asking God to bless my heart, sharing the sweet scent
of sunlight on tilled earth, and the color yellow.