God’s grandeur comes small,

a lifting of eyes,

a sanctuary with space enough

for a shellacked oak altar,

standing room for a minister and two acolytes,

rocking chairs for the presiding matriarchs,

hymns acapella, rugged in the singing,

homilies burnished by drought and harvest,

warm well weathered hands

and wind plowed faces,

cars parked in gravel and weeds,

a temple not in need of marble or gold,

firm as the wood of a homemade cross,

its dome vaulted to shrug off snow,

heresies few, elegies many,

its blessings no less than welcoming smiles,

the healing of old wounds,

coffee from an urn, banana bread,

a tractor tire hung from a revered sycamore

in a churchyard where children

cartwheel and somersault

over golden clumps of mown field grass

into limber leaps of faith