I do not think it’s a pious display, where
Our mouths twist themselves into holy words.
I do not think it is an intense windgust
That lifts our spirits to momentary devotion.
It can be anywhere. It can be
The jagged edges of sunlight
Struggling to bathe the sleepy
Skyline in the kindness of light.
It can be stumbling to your knees on the cat’s tongue of the sand,
Crooning without words a desperate gratitude. I do not think
Worship is loud and raucous; it can be sweating tears of blood.
It can be a red amaryllis, newly made beautiful.
It is a songbird, which also sings without words. It is
An orchid, creeping upon its knees—fruitless and
Barren, which in its time is given
The grace to flower.