In Old Haunts
And I wait upon the wind,
Nothing stirs within my thoughts,
Unless I kindle sparks with should's and ought's.
But I must seek and will,
So I look in all the places
Where I once caught glimpses of His many faces.
Wandering half-hearted
Through the streets of that which was,
"Do it once again," I say, but Spirit almost never does.
Lest we worship places where He came before,
Casting lots for only garments,
Taking oaths upon the temple's gold,
Lifting bread or wine to heaven
When the heavenly's the stuff that makes their mold.
Simulacra almost fit the bill,
Or at least do nicely in their place,
Until, that is, the steward takes the throne,
And mundane boasts the heaven's shoes to fill.