The holy space is gentle,
Soft sounds and welcome peace.
The pages of the books are worn to silk
Opening of themselves.
The rector speaks few words:
Asks when we last had rest,
Inquires of the volume of our lives,
If its level has dimmed our song?
She sits, waits, allows space between words
We didn’t expect, thinking now is the Creed—
We believe in one God, the Father the Almighty,
But silence instead, reaching.
We wonder if something’s wrong,
If we’ve misread the worship folder,
Until we realize this isn’t printed in the text—
An extended rest
For the worn souls
In a silence mounting and holding
Against anticipated rhythms
Of the ancient Creed.
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