PLAIN HOLY

there is no
yours
or mine
in these sweet
minutes,
but only ours --
this
old house
in a thicket
and us
in it
and all
what
little
we have,
these
trinkets
and tatters
and our weary
old selves
and aching
old bones
melded
into one
blessed thing,
and
all our
imperfections,
holy,
and our failures,
perfect,
and our sad truths,
exactly what they're
meant to be,
and this house
is our cathedral
and this old bed,
hallowed
and all the stars
of heaven
belong to us