Chapel

Chapel

My communion begins under sycamore limbs,
in stillness, not silence.

I do not kneel at altars,
but bow to the hymns of songbirds.

Pews of root and boulder strewn with purpose,
a roof of cloud and hawk.

Aspen sermons winding through shuddering leaves,
sacraments of sun through spider silk.

A congregation of lichen and lightning bugs,
moss and mourning doves,

Distant loons become a bell,
signaling release of psalms in pollen.

We gather as water gathers,
as breath gathers.

We are always in worship,
we have always been the prayer.

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