While I pass in my car
she emerges to remind me.
Feeling my vibration she safely tiptoes
backward from the road into
the cathedral of oaks—russet, and wound
in wild grapes. A glimpse of leaves
stained in memory.
What if I left the speed of my car
and followed her quietly in,
covered my head and lit a fragile flame?
Would she show me when to kneel
in the nave and when to shuffle
through the cloisters? I was not raised
in a church like this. I feel lost.
But this is an old church in an even
older world. I start to see
its roots in the shapes of my toes.
I’m sure I can remember the liturgy.