This Holy Place
by Stephen W. Smith
There are no stained glass windows here.
Only the gold of the Aspens and
the cathartic blue of heaven’s skies.
Yet, this is a holy space.
And in my heart, I am bowing.
The high priests swing their incense,
And it is the words that sway me–that slay me.
No candle burns here but my heart alone.
and I feel ignited. I am burning–finally burning.
The open book is my Eucharist.
The wafer offered me by Oliver, Frost and Whyte.
My cup is the poem of words that draw blood.
Words that wound. Words that heal.
This place–this moment is my church
and I belong. I am free. And I am at rest.
The words–they do baptize my wondering heart