Cathedrals

by Vernie Lynn DeMille 

 

The barn calls me to prayer.

The lowing of the cows as insistent as a bell,

The smell of hay an earthy incense,

The manger where I throw the bales

An altar for my efforts.

 

Faith without works is dead

And so I labor;

Here beneath the dust motes

That scatter beneath the wings

Of the everlasting pigeons,

Graying angels, disturbed by my presence.

 

Prayer without penitence

Rises no further than the breath before

My face in the frosty sunlight.

So I sweat, I ache, I groan

Beneath the weight of toil,

 

Step from out the hallowed stillness

Of what my forebears built,

This weathered cathedral, 

Testament to a partnership of 

God, land, and human hope,

And raise my face to that unseen partner.

 

“See me,” I pray,

My voice stolen by the stiff, 

Cold winds of the winter farm,

The breath of storm astride them.

“Hear me,” I whisper, looking down at my gloves,

Too big, but soft, fingers worn through, 

And oversized denim jacket, 

Leftovers from my husband’s collection.

 

An unlikely vestment

On an irreverent worshiper;

Covered as I am in the manure,

Sweat, blood, and stains of 

Daily chores.

“Cleanse me,” I plead. And make my way,

Head bowed beneath the first flakes of snow

To the backdoor.

Where the next set of chores,

My duties to the congregation of my womb, 

Beg my attention,

And pull me from worship. 

 

I turn at the latch to see her,

Standing old, broken and creaking in places,

The weight of faith alone

To keep her still standing.

She and I,

Cathedrals. 

 

December 20, 2019