The Portuguese café table provided an excellent view,
Down the stairs of Bom Jesus and across the valley.
Having climbed the 585 steps, according to my count,
In the intense afternoon sun, I was hoping for a cold drink.

The plan had been to climb
In the cool of the morning, instead,
I had learned that there is more than one church,
In the hills surrounding Braga, called Bom Jesus.

There is only one, though, The Bom Jesus,
Which draws pilgrims seeking spiritual ascent,
To climb its stairs,
On their knees.

Standing at the bottom, in the hot sun,
Having decided not to take the cable car up,
I began the climb, a pilgrim, of sorts,
Though not on my knees.

The smooth steps looked doable,
But the small cobblestones of the ramps and plazas
Between the flights, looked like killers,
From the perspective of someone walking in good shoes.

Sitting now, enjoying the view,
Thinking of pilgrims on their knees,
Thinking how much better I would be,
If a waiter would just see me.

        Walking over carefully,
        They sat on a shady bench.
        In their 80's, my guess.
        He reached out, took her hand,
        She smiled comfortably,
        Rested her head on his shoulder,
        He smiled comfortably.

A pilgrimage, of sorts,
Unexpectedly rewarded
With a spiritual vision,
When not on the stairs,

Or my knees.