The rush of the wind, the wild calm of the sea 
the rustle of leaves, the sacred call of the tree. 
The cliffs are my altar, the dry sand is my penance; 
birds join in choir, give lift to my ascendance. 
Restless on a felled timber pew, stirred by wordless sermons, 
to finally lay down the devil’s gifted burdens.
The setting sun now the preacher, the rising moon, the amens;
gathering stars are the congregation; one dies for my sins.
I whisper “I’m sorry”, I pray that she hears,
for all that I’ve done, and not, over my years. 
For all that I know was never made right, 
and most for all wrongs mercifully kept out of light. 
I recall the promises and secrets that I never kept; 
I recall turning my eyes if my wounded wept. 
And the lies I feigned I believed of my own and of others, 
all because I’d trade another’s scars for my druthers. 
I seek forgiving glints in the glance of a nesting sparrow,
if swear true my path repaved high, straight, and narrow.
The better of my past finds fleeting perches in my head;
used as coins to buy leniency, perhaps a morsel of bread
and a swallow of wine before baptizing myself in the waves,
to rise then reborn cleaner in this most hallowed of naves.