by Samuel Rahberg

When pilgrims hear only music

in language that means something

to those who live here,

there is no choice but to feel

the way into prayer.

One can watch for the right time

to rise, to bow, to sit.

One can listen for the lilt

of psalms, hymns and readings.

One might even glean a

Christo, Maria or Amen,

as clear young voices

chant in single tones.

Like the winged choir perched

on Asian pines nearby,

pilgrim hearts draw in close,

moved beyond listening,

unable to resist the song.

From the collection Ice Break by Samuel Rahberg

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