Blossoms

Blossoms share their lips
with the tender grass,
falling not unlike the scent
of the candle in the alcove
in the chapel...
the candle that flickers
whenever the great doors open
and a shaft of light,
filled with the rain of dust motes,
pierces to the altar.
On the altar there is nothing
but the faint residue
of the priest's palm,
of decades of sweat
and centuries of sweat
from the priests before,
who strove always
to pretend to know,
to have no doubt
about their doubts.
Instead, they were driven to
drink the sacramental wine
to excess or driven into
the sunlight on a spring
or summer day, when nothing
would be acceptable
but the stirring of the leaves
and the reedy song
of a red-winged blackbird,
concerned with its heart-shaped nest,
built from a memory
that the priest did not have
and could never illuminate
except by looking under moon
and starlight
at the pale spears of cattails
pointed toward a vast and crowded night,
in which the ants of stars
move in patterns that reminded everyone
of winter and the coming frost.