On Sunday
David Napollin
There are holes in heaven
When you look through the trees
Especially at morning
When rain in swift descent
Veers from the sky
When air is asleep
Except for birds.
The murmured drenching of leaves
And rumble
Of a distant train
An articulate six o'clock
With no gold but gray
And slow heave of foliage.
Why revere a cathedral
When trees in shadow
Spread wider and more varied
Than any church?
And who would not, without an altar,
Worship the inscrutable silence of a tree
Or loneliness of early rain?
