The Day Becomes Cathedral
How we neglect our chances,
waiting instead for church,
measuring the meantime by dollars
and dollars by the height of rooftops.
These should be occasion enough--
the antiphonal light of a high gable,
a small porch like a pulpit,
a bird bath as baptismal,
the sparrow-choirs gorgeous
in their burnished browns.
What day, what rain-soaked
fog-shrouded day, does not become
cathedral, does not discover
some convenient place for awe,
even a dank grotto beneath trees?
Marvel as well from the shade
of a sun-fired bush or from
the surface of a wet black stone.
Literature and Belief, Vol. 30.2, p. 35.