Cathedral

It is a cathedral,

with a waterfall for a choir.

The old cathedrals rose

like beacons

from the crowded Medieval slums.

This cathedral, older by far, hides

amidst the desolate grass.

The grass drops away

and from the sand dives

a translucent stream

around which life gathers.

Columns of maple and birch raise

stained glass leaves

to catch the chameleon sun.

They whisper in the wind

and tell the tale of the seasons,

green, red, and white.

Yet always the moss

grows emerald in the mist.

Ice clings in the shadow of the stone

though spring is well advanced.

The water is cold,

speaks of winter

in warmest summer.

The sand is soft,

yet smooth like skin,

a silk hand

against the soul.

Walls of the wooded canyon rise,

cradling each being

which finds itself here,

welcoming it home.

And the stream,

like all streams,

leads to the sea.

Nature’s prayer,

like all prayers.

This is a sanctuary,

one spot unspoilt.

In time the wooded walkway

will rot and fall away,

as all things do.

In time the stone

will be worn down

and the great, gilt fall

will be but a simple stream again.

In time the sand will sweep in,

the grass with it,

and devour these leafy vaults.

It will then become a cathedral.