The shutters are open,
there are no curtains.
Stop. Look through the dark pane.
Find simple sanctuary without icon or lace,
a congregation of one, who has forgotten
how to pray. Come. Listen.
Take up residence, sweep away the dust;
expose silent eyes, deep wits.
Light a candle. Line the sills with potted geraniums.
Stay. Long enough to see them grow.
Be the sexton who makes supper of thoughts,
whisks a fluffy omelet of the past.
Sing. Something that sounds like a hymn,
what ships and stones might say.
Dote on my still possible body,
the soft secret structure of worship.