The Dawn is my cathedral
With buttresses not of stone
but of light, cascading over me.

A cup of coffee my sacred communion
Fermented in green plantations of the holy lands.
Warming my consciousness,
with milk and bean.

my congregation are dogs
And they do parade up and down the aisles,
Vaulting into the dew swept cloister-
Interpreting their version of Morning Glory.

I do dress in Sunday best, for that is pajamas.
True formal wear
My pew is my couch sitting there softer than any wood.
When I enter my morning I do not take holy water
I make water- blessed by dreams.

Mine is a religion of one, without bishops or priests,
No aisles to separate, no big hats or jackets
And in my church, no chorus dare sing-
For there is no greater sin in the morning
than any human voice.

Thus my sermon is mute.
Without moral or physical obligation
No one telling me how to live,
Relishing in the Cathedral's daily blessing.

'I am alive'