In the hills, a chapel painted pink.
Pillars of marbled cream shot through
with faint markings of blue.
Around the clock, always a pair of nuns
prostrate before the altar. Here, intention
is a strip of paper penned by gnarled fingers
in the flickering half-dark, then fed
to the flame. Branches wrestle all night
with the wind, then sigh. A wren
perches on the rim of the rain gutter.
Even on backward knees, I wish I could hold
a hope as fixed and steadfast as that.
[LAG-signature date=”08 24 2011″ url=”http://morningporch.com/2011/08/24/159121968″]