The old and ruined church in the woods,
open to the sun and the stars, and overgrown
and verdant with ivy, kudzu and flowers.
A place of worship forgotten, used by people
long gone, it is taken by nature, and nature is God,
and God is awesome and always wiping us away.
Solitude, the cool, moist and misty morning,
the babble of the little clear brook, and silence,
allowing a small, still voice to speak.
In the wind, I feel something, in this left behind
and more righteous cathedral, that is more than
breath and blood.
A moment, and then the world comes in, and
breath and blood is all I am, simply human,
still longing to touch something behind the air.
And I think of a long past lover, and a November
evening, in youth and freedom and a gaudy city,
and if in those soft kisses, did our souls really touch?