I step into their sanctuary an outsider
curious, but they are quiet, and answers,
when they come, are terse. They speak
in ecclesiastical terms foreign
to those not ensnared by their zeal,
dazzling and disorienting at once.
Oh, to be a part of such joy, to soar
like the regal birds they admire:
counting cataloguing, exclaiming,
and it occurs to me then that theirs
is just another doctrine of devotion,
their passion ubiquitous but unique:
they watch birds; my father collected
stamps; bakers swap recipes
and risen bread. All have their language,
their saints and sinners, hallelujahs and amens,
but few are ecumenical enough to see that
while the faces of their gods differ,
their call to worship is the same.
At the Hawk Watch by Priscilla Melchior | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
