Secret saints surround us,
hidden well among the human
camo concealing them.
Among wet backs harvesting grapes.
Dodging traffic on city streets.
Sitting in silent solitude in a nursing home.
Rocking on a Savannah porch, wreathed in wisteria.
At sea, watching dolphin surf the bow wave.
Locked in a prison cell, a stranger to justice.
These, by their living, sanctify our soil,
bless the air we breathe,
transubstantiate concrete into sanctuary.
These, the spear in the side of Old Divinity,
remind It that we are here
still.