little grey birds build their nest in the arch of a church window

from where i sit,
through the sunlit stain-glass,
you are shadows flitting up and sideways
against the light,
building a continuation
to things i barely understand.

from the outside, i cannot reach
skywards enough, so deep
etched in the eaves is your work.
little sounds, chirping,
dollops of mud and what liquid you find
to build miracles.

you are on that side of the cross,
living what only the holy
can be, one and so many,
ever ascending, inaccessible
in your closeness to what
i might be, and strive, and

am promised after
when this house will be finished, this
field will yield crops,
this battle over.
from where i sit, on this side,
your shapes adumbrate
the communion that is.

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