Holy Places

I watch the sunset from the corner 
of Country Mill and Western Drive 
and note how rooflines echo Frary Peak 
on Antelope Island—bent pyramids 
black against the sky and rimmed 
with light like glowing magma.

These homes are little mountains of the Lord, 
hollows filled with congregants 
who follow daily ritual—eat, sleep, 
breathe, read, pray, succor, sacrifice, 
speak key words from memory 
again and again and again,

and when one forgets, another whispers 
cues into inclined ear, restoring the rhythm. 
All are connected by lines of light, 
tethered to a central point 
so as day draws down and wraps 
shadow around and between them,

they are not alone. God, who knows 
what grows or crumbles within, 
holds all loose threads in hand 
and pulls them taut, thrums 
them like the strings of an 
instrument to fill His temples with music.