House of Common Prayer

Near the edge of the timber
where a ravine cuts a deep swath in the clay,
a stand of yellow clover rises,
one bright chapel in the brome.
 
This is a house of common prayer,
my matins,
where I lay my woodsorrel at the altar
and weave my voiceless psalms
among the birdsong.
 
This is a place of rest,
safe from thistle and teasel;
a place of hand-folding, green-knuckled 
and small;
a place where the length of oxtongue is lament,
and the depth of dandelion
is praise.
 
I have been here before
as a child who traveled alleys
and once found—keeping vigil behind the corner grocery store —
a hallelujah of hollyhocks.
 
Even at eight, I knew this was a place of prayer,
that there behind the garbage cans were crimson blossoms
preparing a way in the wilderness.