White Stone Journal

A thin wall separates me from the Holy of Holies.

Through it I can hear the angels

singing "Holy, Holy, Holy."

My feet are shaken as

the elders throw down their crowns.

Wafts of incense sometimes find me;

all this is beyond me.

Dead pale leaves lie

under the Sun of Jerusalem.

The way is quiet

and bits of the Cross

are relics

packed in cotton.

The dishes are cleared

away and the room is empty.

William E. Rushman, April 1998