The Sanctuary

by Christopher A. Woods

Of knotted wood and lofted green

entered a boy of faith,

a prophet in embryo.

Therein was granted an

herald of peace

to echo through time’s

final corridor.

On the back of

a wooden chair

rest my forearms

and clasped hands.

My grove lies in

a quiet room with

worn carpet.

Wherein I, too,

am grateful for

the power of prayer.