Poem

[silentplaces]

last sunday

if you walk
long enough beside
that roaring river
where the water is so loud
you cannot even hear
the thought of your own name
you may yet find
the still chapel
in the trees

the pews were taken
for firewood long ago
there are leaves and
fallen flowers
on the floor

the sun comes through
the spaces in the roof
like the best arguments
there ever were
for the existence of god

there is no bible
on the altar anymore
and the print has faded
from all the hymnal pages
so you may sing
any song you like
and pray

like no one's listening
like no one's ever been listening
because it is our privilege

we who moved the great stones
raised the bright towers
lifted out the treasures
of the earth may pray
unto the secret things
we believed when we were young
before we go

into the waning day
the is-and-always-was
fading hour of ourselves
the coming chorus
of the evening

and know that it was good
for all its bellowed words
its thrashing flesh and
tiresome chemicals
in its ashes in its dust
and even in its atoms
it was good

amen