Under the Chapel
As I sit here pondering prayer;
it's point, it's purpose,
the pious parade passes
towards midday prayer.
I have chosen to be under the chapel,
within earshot,
an outside observer.
Footsteps approach and fade
on the weathered wood.
I close my eyes in the sun.
The chants begin
like a warm fragrance,
muffled enough that the words
cannot rob the beauty.
Here,
the wind in the trees
and the passing traffic
are part of the chorus.
I am thankful for those
in the chapel;
their commitment,
their duty,
but I have no need to be there.
I am here,
under the chapel;
my eyes open,
my ears attuned.
I am at prayer.