Your temple is painted
with early stars and evening lights
with a dying sun and children running
backpacks rattling their cheap song
a band of orange and silver-blue
in the holy above
a reborn freshness
so that when you breathe
it’s like a cool wind
has entered your spirit
to take it riding, riding through time
tangling your hair in memories
temple of you
built from a fallen branch
front yard
ghost gum mottled grey
the shape of skybreak lightning
and by the gutter
fractures of window glass
jeweled obliterations
shining like something valuable
old days of treasure and adventure
for the eyes
cars pass by in the near distance
a solitary bird in silhouette flight
sunset dying now for real
crucifix telepoles and black wires
sending talk and intimacy
world messages
you pray to your stained heaven
it might be you’ve been chosen
to celebrate the alone not lonely
the quietly happy
our communion as a people
in fallen leaves
a mother walking home
with a key in her hand
a father with bread
and plastic shopping bags.