Spanish Patio at Old Mission Inn

When faith drops so low that God fails to exist When grief is a pathogen masking true looks When rationality deems pleasure is not worth the trouble When a walk is so boring it’s nothing but stiff And nobody hears you cry Then, amid groping and stumbling with surprise you land at a place and the place understands It answers even so strong a case as if it knew charm and grace And welcomes your wonder at what is animate and who is not The Spanish Patio at Old Mission Inn— meaningless clutter it seems at first exuberance of rock and tile and wood portico fountain Saltillo viga Then it clutches, grabs and stops scrapes off the faults that cling kicks out darkness like Eden’s sinners and forces renewal Footsteps slow voices lower air of peace works into you Each one staggers about the earth searching searching waiting for the dross to fall Then, as if selected by maker or made swallowed in a womb of healing disposition and world remake in a place without a reason Why does this place repel invasion while grander temples fail?