The Narthex

Dust,

oh, the haze that leaves her figure fettered,

graying sturdy tables, lamps, and wooden floors,

stirred up only to be caught by cobwebs

tying closed the windows and the doors.

Floorboards,

left complaining like an aged grove of pines,

echoing their discontent of chilling wind;

but there, the ponderosa cries forth joy

as the butterscotch takes to the wind.

Banisters,

swirling down from heights unmeasured, priest-like,

worn by tender care to lead us up the stairs—

swinging spiral cedar censers, lifting

incense heavenward to God, like prayers.

Walls,

leading on beyond the stairs and foyer—

papered diamonds, black and red, peeling away

from the corners of the walls and reaching

down the faded hall toward decay.

Windows,

breathing through the dark, a liturgy of light

splinters through the shattered glass and webs,

scattering upon the whining floorboards

light arrayed, from deepest blues to reds.

Ghost,

haunting once the long-abandoned abbey,

it is I who stirs the dust up and bemoans

the floor. And when I leave, its requiem

will be the dust that settles in my bones.

Glory,

stagnating the ruin’s hush, a hymn floats

on each mote of dust that flies from forlorn floors;

I will sing their melody, pray right through

their liturgy, and plead God’s grace upon

the sinners Christ implores.