Doubting, or woeful, or just bored, perhaps,
she sits in the overheated chapel,
end of the pew, by the window,
staring at the ochre splash of sunlight
against the communion railing,
and beyond it the dark corner
obscured in shadow behind the ray of light.

The voices drone on
but what she hears is the echoes
of all those prayers she has said
and psalms she has recited,
maybe to no avail, she thinks,
those hopeful words she now doubts
but still hears echoing like shadows
behind the light of all her thoughts.

A dust mote drifts out of the black into the light,
and she stares at it: like her, just drifting,
without ground, without purpose,
without flock or herd or home.
She sort of loves it for that—

and then a too-warm ray of sun,
an ocean wave of light washes over her
to behold that like it
she is held, in light, radiant,
and seen,

Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
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