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. |