My sisters and brothers,
we are small, so small,
creeping, wings clipped,
through weeks and years,
no end in sight
(although our end
will one day come,
certain and sure).
We stare up at the stars
and ask the old questions:
Who made us?
Why are we here?
Silence and more silence.
The universe will not
answer, the heavens
are mute as stones,
but if we were given
one sacred acre where
we could wander at will
as wingless pilgrims do
in old stone cathedrals,
would each moment open
into an immense branching
interior where we could perch
eternal? This is what I would ask
if, some Sunday, I were called
upon to deliver a brief homily,
no, homily and rant.