Be here:
surrounded 
by stone,

by hewn stone, tints
of ochre, carnelian,

fieldstone graying
to dim white—

stones placed
one by one, a labor
arduous and exact.

Be here:
in presence
of stones, of silence,

of silence holding a pale
memory of shame,
of the cross
defiled (brandished
in war as a weapon)

of the poor
later, encamped
among charred
stones, time
of abandonment,
the altar fallen.

Be here:
where columns, arches
colors
of hay, of chaff,
of hedge-rose dust
recall

the time of
stored grain, time
of sheep wintering,
drifted snow
heaped at
the broken door.

Be here, surrounded
by stone, by time,
by sunlight entering
like a bee at the
arched portal.

Here, where so long
no altar stood,
there stands, hewn
but not carved, 
a block
of plain
stone unadorned,

and on the floor
before it, a gray
stoneware jar holds
(held, itself,
in the careful
space which
within the peace
of these ancient 
stones
sustains us)

fading goldenrod,
fresh marguerites and
ardently pink
dahlias, dahlias
of bright
scarlet, dahlias
of garnet crimson,
almost black,
both reds
bloodred,

the entire bouquet
singing its colors
the livelong
empty day, the stones
resanctified.