I am a little church
I am a little church (no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities.
I do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
I am not sorry when sun and rain make April.
My life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are prayers of earth’s own clumsily striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying) children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness.
Around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols of hope,
and I wake to a perfect patience of mountains.
I am a little church (far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish) at peace with nature.
I do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
I am not sorry when silence becomes singing.
Winter by spring, I lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness).
~ Edward Estlin Cummings ~
(Complete Poems 1904-1962)