No less, a part of this surrounding
The tall ceiling, windows like towers
And the broken light lying
Like a hand, softly against the altar,
Than here, with the gentle, frozen eyes
Of statues, palms pressed softly
Together, forms of grace
Formulas to recite, and
Footsteps to follow, no more
Born to this than to
That other land, the quiet space between
Asleep and then
Awake, no place to stop
And stay, but wonder,
And pass through.
~R.B.