Praying Inside St. Mawnan's Church

above a river consenting

to become sea, long lines

of displaced stones and scars

ask questions about the hiddenness

of what is holy, which isn’t really

hiding at all, but waiting for you

to hunger for it again, willing

you to turn toward something

tender, elemental, and capable

of recovery.

May it guide you through

the heaviness of all things

vast and charred, vacant

and sorrowful, knowing

that your home in God

holds on to you, pulls

you forward, mends

your soul with threads that

are older, wilder, deeper

than molecules of despair.

No saint ever said paying attention

would be easy, because nothing

vital ever is.