I lay in the hammock,
Limbs heavy and sluggish in the
And it is a holy moment.
The slow summer breeze
Carries pollen as incense.
Above me rises the blue dome of this cathedral.
Solid oak branches form
And in their upper reaches,
Angels perch and sing like swallows.
Amid their chorus,
I hear the low whisper,
Soft and gentle and desperately dear:
The reason for the vault of sky,
The angels’ piping strains,
The incense of the flowers and trees.
His whisper, his voice,
So quiet you could miss it.
So small you could mistake it,
And think instead that
He was in the wind, the earthquake, the fire.