Every Sunday brings some glee—
No frantic rush to holiness
No struggle to believe and belong
No strangling on outrageous claims.

How believe the baloney
When beauty waits to be known
Held, tasted like fresh red currants
On their way to jelly?

The side door opens toward
An accidental weeping willow
Maple, apple, barn, a small hill
Beyond fear and righteousness

This and breath and stillness
Make all things well.