Rain pelts the curvatures
of your solemn arches;
your walls high against white sky,
your layered bricks thrusting out
like a broken crust.
I listened for your voices –
in the rhythm of rain drops
in the sounds of unexpected wind.
I listened for the chanting of the monks
in their woolen robes
pattering on invisible floors.
I propped my ears up
to the corners of the chapel walls,
sensing the beat of hearts.
Somewhere, from within,
these ancient surfaces
an unheard voice answered,
beckoning my soul to communicate,
to embrace the materialism of stones.
Windows leading into heaven, like icons,
become secret passages to enlightenment.