Poem: The Cathedral

The Cathedral

Spires and spires,
brown and green,
stretching high
point to God
as they stand
circled up
around the
patio.
A gentle
rain streams down
into the
small clearing.
It dances
and sparkles
as fine as
any stained
glass window.
He proudly
pats the bench—
it’s his pew—
”It’s made of
teak,” he says.
Then he smiles
because he
knows that he
is at home.

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