Pilgrimage
Sanctuary torn open;
arches forming
in midair;
Spaces to let in Spirit –
These become a frame,
in which to frame,
the gray existence
against a gray sky.
Somewhere beyond the slate horizon,
the unseen angels
flow across the intricate
limestone cornices,
into the stair-stepped vault,
into the depths of shadow,
past the pools of water
that mirror the stones,
and into the crevices of creation.
Iron railings close off the entrance to eternity;
but it is still there, hidden,
under the colorless rainbow.
Sanctuary torn open;
arches forming
in midair;
Spaces to let in Spirit –
These become a frame,
in which to frame,
the gray existence
against a gray sky.
Somewhere beyond the slate horizon,
the unseen angels
flow across the intricate
limestone cornices,
into the stair-stepped vault,
into the depths of shadow,
past the pools of water
that mirror the stones,
and into the crevices of creation.
Iron railings close off the entrance to eternity;
but it is still there, hidden,
under the colorless rainbow.
I have walked through the ancient spiritual places, the high castles by the sea, the broken monasteries, and living abbeys that always seem to call to me. I find them, too, hidden in plain sight in the middle of a busy street... like Merton walking in Louisville, I look around and find myself in love with everyone.