In what temple does anyone
find a way?
The shadows of a church engulf me.
The shadows of a forest
leave me pure and reverent.
The shadows of my mind,
the temple of all feeling,
bring me grief and joy,
where I kneel does not matter.
I have seen God’s face
most in children.
In eyes that sparkle from a
boiling fire.
The cliff, feathery with fern,
has been an altar,
and the stream,
pouring off the height,
cascades like a descending angel
full of singing.
The hieroglyphs of a book
pressed in the dust of shelves,
releases flowers,
and stones brought close
are scepters of a king.
The wash of waves embrace me
like a host,
lifting me in prayer,
exaltation.
I am the captured force
of God’s breath,
alive with lightning.
It is all the same,
everywhere,
the sanctuary, the arches, the pews,
the language of the service,
the silent adoration,
the dance,
everywhere, God reaching
with his restless arms,
pulling me from the sepulcher
and saying,
“My children are love,”
and teaching them
how to.