It seems the birds themselves pronounce a rhyme

It seems the birds themselves pronounce a rhyme
from in the trees, the several church bells rang
at dawn announcing day. I remember prayers sang
and mumbled in the breezeway, the smart plume

of feathers in her hair. The flickering flame
near the altar before mass, the auspicious bang
of a book dropped to the floor. The candles hang
from the ceiling in neat rows and they illumine

the pious and the poor. The ocean's heart
is pulsing beneath the surface, its wide nose
smells at the shores of islands. The birds start

to sing around, arrange a verse that throws
itself across the valley. I know some parts
but certainly not all of the beautiful rose.