The scent of sandalwood
lingers in the rafters.
Sunlight spills its splendor
on the benches hewn by hand
and smoothed by wind.
An owl, the seeming master
of this domain, looks wise
and holy from his perch
high in the apse; the feathered
choir flits in and out with song,
Whether practice or performance
I could not ascertain, but every note
seemed perfect to my ear.
I stood without disturbing, hesitant
to turn my back on such peace,
But Monday calls
with all its telephones
and tensions; the mundane world
of work reclaims my mind. Even as I
glare at the computer and juggle
tasks from nine to five, birdsong,
the scent of sandalwood and ginger
linger soft as balm.