A boy cradles a leaf in the palm of his hand.
It’s a red leaf, found on a hillside
among its colleagues,
the already fading output of growing life,
now brought to wondrous reverence
as the beauty upon which the day is hinged.
The two orbs of this mere sprout
cannot give the leaf its life again,
but they shine upon the frayed markings
with a fierce recognition
of the soul’s thirst for the lingering light.
With a fingertip, the boy traces legends
across the veins, brushing meaning
into the ordinary corners of the chapel.
Everything leans toward its dissolution,
the worship itself brings a slight crinkle
to the fabric.
But it’s all good, all good as we
carry each other home in the dusk:
holy is the struggle; holy,