Sunday Morning

This schoolhouse poses as a temple

Every sunday opens wide its doors

We ride over ocean bridge leading to country road

Away from this New England campus that would make

Old quaker men rattle their bones

Betraying the humble roots that crack open sidewalks

This time of year trees quake in the frenzy of early spring

A windy village city on the edge of the shore

Reminding even the construction workers of their origins

The students are unearthed by the first traces of April

Flailing friendships out of convertible skylights

The filthiest rap music from wide open windows

I drive past the bay, the boats, the train tracks

Arrive at worship and join the strangers that greet us as “friends”

Watch the tiny girl cling to her mother’s thigh

Babble with the fish tank prisoners when everyone is quiet

The silence doesn’t bother me anymore

Sometimes wonder what it is i’m listening for

What is God but the prayer flag stained glass windows

The baby birds being born outside our meetinghouse

When someone finally speaks, I smile

Their lips move in metaphors

A boat tossed on the sea, a jeweled web,

The bread, the wine, palms made out of small, green handprints

Friends gather and sip tea in thick mugs

Engage in close conversation

Hands thrashing with gratitude

I holdfast to the hand of my partner

Heart ablaze with a new hallelujah

Finding god in a place that doesn’t mention the word

Here God is a verb

Finding peace within your very self

Every pavement step a prayer

Wet sand bathing bare legs on an april afternoon

Finally calling that friend and bursting into conversation

Like an entire year hadn’t even passed

Trees sprouting through pavement

like an environmental statement

Taking the drive every Sunday

To breathe in the silence

Shoulder to shoulder with complete strangers