We press our foreheads
onto dimpled marble,
the same as ten million
pilgrims past.
We share a vision.
Rain falls
and faith rises.
We kneel beneath prophets
and gargoyles;
a granite edifice,
baroque belltowers.
There is no downpour
of starlight,
no luminosity of tears,
but rather a discreet presence.
We are received
and we receive.
At the Door of Glory
we genuflect
and whisper yes.