POEM: Church

I love morning’s dirty light, how it tickles
Music from the throats of morning birds.

First, it’s dark out and there are no sounds at all.
But then – at the first spill of milky light

Over the thin-lipped horizon, birds begin a choral call
And response. It is music as stained glass,

Sanctifying sound by clarifying silence,
Straining sunlight into its many colors.

Even surrounded as we always are by the naysayers
And those who will never honor a single grateful day,

Here is where my God lives.
It is my church and my communion received.