Altar

I arrange the tea lights across the desk,
And the blown fuse has transformed it to an altar
In Spain.  I am a praying heroine that I've read of in books.
My purple terry cloth towel turns to a shawl, and as I light the incense
Clean hair drips wet on my bare shoulders.  I shiver
For warmth and hungrily sip my hot tea.

I grip the olive green mug full of chamomile tea
Hard, even though I burn my fingertips.  My desk
Fills with candlelight and warmth.
The heroine approaches the altar
And her hair smells of rosewater.  The incense
Curls around the pages of her books.

Hymnals birth from the books,
Whose authors are saints.  I look at the tea
Lights all in a row; the incense
Is drunk and heavy, flirts over the desk
And dances barefoot on the altar
With the flickering wicks, reflecting warmth

Onto my bare shoulders.  Its warmth
Is a prayer for the books.
Fire, to Steinbeck, patron saint of my altar.
Patience, to Thoreau and the tea
Lights wink in kneeling reverence on the desk.
Imagination, to Carroll, and the incense

Curls up into a smile.  The incense
Smiles at the book prayer, its cinder warmth
Floods the desk.
The golden face of Buddha laughs from a book
Cover.  I gulp my tea,
Deep, and ponder an icon over the altar.

This is my sanctuary, my altar.
I don the shawl and light the incense,
I compose each prayer as I ignite the tea
Lights, big enough for a blink, and consume the warmth
Of the imagined red votives; Spanish heroine of the books.
Tea lights all in a row--four, then six more on the desk.

My desk is my altar,
My books are the hymnals and the incense,
Curls like warmth.  Joni strums in Latin as I ruminate my hot tea.

Sestina, January 2005