Steve Bertolino



Leave that to me: the aching push
of slow clouds across the deep sky.
You’re a raindrop in that vast sea and I,
sometimes, am the breath of God.
Billowing your skirts, I pass by,
caressing them in a lazy seamlessness.

My child, I love you in ways
you can’t understand and I can’t explain,
except to say that there must be at least
two kinds of joy in heaven: of the child
as you run through the lawn sprinkler
over and over, cool jets of water rushing
against your skin as you break past
their thin but real barrier, the sun warm
above you, and of the adult walking past,
seeing, understanding the experience

of a simple and perfect form of worship.
Peace that will fill you in this world
cannot articulate the depth of the sky,
or what resurrected bodies comprehend
breaking through the veil as near
as the lawn sprinkler in your front yard.


Steve Bertolino is an academic librarian living and working in Middlebury, Vermont.  His poems have appeared in Northern Stars Magazine and the Brevity Poetry Review.