They are halfway stations
\nbetween ourselves and above.
\nSometimes like cathedrals,
\nlight comes through
\nin a shower of stars,
\nor the sky falls down
\nthrough our arms with joy.
\nThe roof between streets
\nis lapis lazuli burning with opal,
\nand the roof for rain is a waterfall.<\/p>\n
The roof of a blanket
\nis like no roof at all,
\nexcept Jackie has such a roof
\nwhere Michael joins in.
\nHung between chairs
\nit becomes a home
\nas good as any roof
\nholding up clouds.<\/p>\n
What lives without a roof?
\nPerhaps the sea under clarity
\nand mountains too tall
\nor,
\na bird rising to forever
\non its last soaring flight
\nto enter a hall,
\nwhere we cannot enter.
\nBut for us
\nthe soul has places
\nwhere roofs must be,
\nwide as the world,
\nor the width of a finger.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
They are halfway stations between ourselves and above. Sometimes like cathedrals, light comes through in a shower of stars, or the sky falls down through…<\/p>\n