Silence inside the cold edifice,
_                                                                 _ household of the word,
_                  _ sailing ship of the spirit.

A winding path leads up to a door
_                 _past red-berried holly, clipped yew,
_         _ marble and granite slabs standing upright,
_                             _ names mossy, dates neglected.

The stonecutter’s hand, the woodcarver’s
_                             _chisel and mallet
_               _ cut crockets and quatrefoils,
legends of martyrdom, a saintly rabbi nailed to a cross.

_         _ Everything we believe or don’t believe or half-believe
or once believed or aren’t quite sure about
_                     _floats in this enclosed air.

A jar is broached, an amphora of scented oil.
_           _A woman laves
_                     _with Aramaic hands
feet dusty from Galilean roads
_                             _—the words of her story echoing in
the language of gnostics and empire-builders.

But she doesn’t hear any of this.
She kisses the man’s feet, her tears falling for all time.
_                     _She dries them with her hair.

And so, with a whiff of scent,
_                     _a whish of seersucker,
_                             _we open our little books and kneel.