Wandering, the sanctuary

I was led into the sanctuary by a wandering butterfly
to where the hills were set in low-relief against the vaulted sky
and the candle among the silhouetted pews
graced with lilies-of-the-valley and feverfew
where the congregations of the flies and lizards
sing hymns in harmonies and tongues and angels’ words.

In the woods there’s no proselytizing or preachers,
there are no dogmas, treatises or teachers,
instead there are mosquitoes, serpents, ants, and squirrels
to remind the wandering man that there are worlds
where worship is not an action, it’s a cycle:
birth, breath, worship, death, revival.