spirituality drips from the leaves with the dew
and kisses the red brick moistly,
leaving fingerprints trailing over windowpanes…

these are the days when I think that perhaps
I could drink the pale sun from the bowl of my hands;
when even the grating complaints of machines
and grinding pistons cannot shake
the sanctity of vespers.

once upon a time I stood flanked and flanking
a unit whole and yet fractured off the sides,
a budding bough in the forest.
we listened to those voices soar
and strings rippling, rending the air
so sweetly that silence
martyred herself in vain;
even the undying stars spinning above
could not defy candlelit faces.

crucifixes and metal bowls
always seemed somehow lacking –
so static and severe.

but this – geometrics drawn in dewy webs
and nave arches echoed in the bowing grass –
here, away from unearthly voices
and chains of braided harp strings –
this is more.