Little Maria stands in the rain, stands in the snow,
     stands in the dark of night in the middle of a hurricane.
When lightning strikes, she sees too clearly how, in spite of her faith,
     everything has come too little too late.

She sees how silly her struggles are, as she jumps up and down,
     like a clown, entertaining no one, buoying no ego, her powdered 
makeup all ruined by water dripping from the ceiling of the heated crypt.
     Little Maria wants to take a long, deep nap.

She is so tired of Fathers beyond reproof,
     and the Vicar of Clergy telling her to pray.
Little Maria was praying when the vase of tiger lilies broke
     into shards parishioners held together with heavy stones.

Now, the stones are gone, lilies long forgotten. Little Maria has counted
     up to fourteen neon green frogs, but still, there is no turn. 
Knife in hand, she thinks at last, “To hell with God!” He chides
     gently: “You must not let them kill the love in your heart.”