We climb into silence,
like a chapel. We stand, still
as the stone of ancient altars,
monuments to the intangible.

Religion, proper, precise, stalks
like a crane at the water’s edge,
a homily sewn
in tradition’s strict
thread stinking

of mothballs.
But, Religious,

it dances, a nave
of the spirit, not
quite stained glass—

rather the bright splash
of deep longings,
unspoken hopes,
the essence of ascent.

(Religion, see how
your dove plummets
yet might still
find flight?)

And we, here,
seekers on the brink, finding
our truths in the arduous
ascent, in the embrace

of the climb
into silence,