There is a covering of lace on the altar.
When I kneel there, supplicant, beggar
Not wholly myself
I follow the whorls with my eyes
See the single, double, treble
Of the crocheted steps
See the tiny pieces
Making a whole.
When I rise, back straight , stomach in
I think of delicate strings singing on
Falling over each other to create
This bit of angel wing and cloud tuft.