CLXVI and CLXVII

"Worship" and "The Seven Days of September: iii"

Is worship just devotion? Is it mere-

-ly opening the caverns in our heart

to something that we feel will draw us near

to something of a higher, holier art?

Is worship emulation? Is it mere-

-ly copying the work of one who might

embolden us through action, over fear,

empowering us through their better right?

Is worship visitation? Is it mere-

-ly welcoming a greater thing inside

our hearts, where they can better help us, here

where, in our worshipped peace, they can abide?

Is worship for what we have humbly done?

Or is it all the things that make us one?

~~~

My body knows, now, when to go to bed.

August’s clock ticks softer than September.

Her elder leaves by which our lungs are fed

now hearth us all just like a fire’s ember.

And now the windows start to tell of cold.

Their touch no longer warms the nose-too-close.

They whisper of the snow that comes to fold,

or is that just what I would diagnose?

Anyway, all those cold windows do prod

me I’ve got to rest after a day.

As if to give a stern parental nod

that says ‘it’s time you’ve had enough of play’.

I listen. For who argues with the glare

of Autumn’s cool indomitable air?