Poem of the Week

A space to rise in,

made from what falls,

from the very mass

it's cleared from,

cut, carved, chiseled,

fluted or curved

into a space

there is no end to

at night when

the stained glass

behind the altar

could be stone too,

obsidian, or basalt,

for all the light there is.

At night, high

over the tiny

galaxy of cancles

guttering down

into dark chapels

all along the nave,

there's greater

gravity inside the

the grace that's risen

highest into rib

vaults and flying

buttresses, where

each stone is another

stone's resistance to

the heaven far

beneath it, that

with all its might

it yearns for, down

in the very soul

of earth where it's said

that stone is forever

falling into light

that burns as it rises,

cooling, into stone.