that writhe and strain
towards the light and rain
but buildings too
frozen mimes of stone
locked in silence like
the gentle dead who built them
nonetheless enact
the secret whispers in our head
chaste proxies for our souls
express our longing
for more than sun and air
but order also, harmony
stability, beauty, eternity
see there the distant steeple
over drowsy roofs
between the canyon streets
seeming pointing where
all the clouds swirled about
reveal a clear blue
eye of sky. I can no less see
the world like this
than a wall can will to fall,
a memory of love or life
contrive to die.
Our arguments with gravity
accuse the sun, make shadows
of our fears, conducting
lightning’s symphony down
bring the very stars to tears.

Little Church In Woodland

This entry was posted in Architecture, Art, History, Photography, Poetry, Psychology, Uncategorized, Writing. Bookmark the permalink.

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