Old Stone

I walked through an old stone building. A cathedral. It was cavernous, but perfect in it’s symmetry. It was a human accomplishment of momentous scale. Its arches and trusses were curves accented with the geometry of angles. When I pressed my hand to the base of an arch, I felt the resolute position of its hips. The arch was like a middle-aged spine, imperceptibly bent with the grace of following life's course; not yet old enough for its impeccable design to fail, but not immune to the cold ache of time. The cathedral was patient, but I could smell its exhaustion, its shade was heavy like perfume. God's glory is a lot to hold. We gave it a soul. We sang to it. We filled it with our expectations, with weighty proclamations: Latin phrases of frozen form. It is tiring to hold our syntax. But cathedrals are proud. When we cry, they lift our chins to the cross.

She met me there. I was trying to see out a window, but it was stained with stories. Standing on the stone, I could feel my feet. I lay down. I wanted to feel my back, my head, my hands, too. The stone floor worn rough then smooth again, seemed to push back. I felt the tension, convulsing between surrender and desire. A human in the face of god.     

She held me. Her arms were warmer than the cathedral, more steady. I cried. She lifted my chin and our eyes met. My goddess grasped my hand, leading me into a spring that smelled like lilacs and fresh baked bread.