In the ancient Gothic church
Mother Mary whispers here;
Her stony face looks out at me,
blank eyes that shed a granite tear:
There beneath her warming cloak
a mass of children huddle there,
seeking shelter and maternal love —
their fears and pains that she will bear
are lit by a sea of candlelight
that lifts cares hence, way up high,
borne aloft away from here,
to dissipate in distant skies

Peering through a old stone gate,
its face well carved, in prayers attired,
I saw a golden wall of late
before which stood cracked streetlamps retired,
their warming light now long gone
yet they still glow stubbornly on

Sometimes I find myself ahead
Others I fall behind

Sometimes I love to read
Others I rest my eyes

Sometimes I watch anime
Others I'm on Disney+

Sometimes I watch old movies
Others I watch Owl House

Sometimes I want to be an adult
Others I find I'm still a kid

Sometimes I rush to grow up
Others I want to be Peter Pan

Sometimes the world spins too fast
Others it feels too slow

Sometimes I keep a schedule
Others I go with the flow

Invariably,
You prefer to come
To me in the dark.
"You're more my temperature then,"
You once said.
I'm not much of a thermometer,
But I am the eurythmy
To each syllable you give
In such settled shadow.
A play of murmurs and fingertips,
You once named this.
Always I see a wreath in your hair,
In colors of Persia,
Textures of night,
And the soft blended lines
Of you I know
Infallibly.