TOUCHING EARTH, TOUCHING SKY

The hill, geologists pronounce,
is part of a range on the ocean side
        of the Delaware River.
Mount Misery, Mount Holly, Mount Laurel,
Cherry Hill, Mullica Hill fall lower
        as the chain goes south.
Those who read the record say
at least once and probably twice
everything east was submerged
        beneath tidal water:
the range became a millennia old ocean ridge.
Thus the rises were rounded
        not cragged like Pennsylvania hills.

These days, on the hill of Cherry Hill,
you turn off King's Highway
        to a rising vision.
Rooted in ground eighty million years old
        its ridge pole scratches momentary clouds.
Through those great open rectangles
        soon to be windows and doors
you see strong towering holly and pine
        planted in our lifetime.
Soon you'll hear the sounds of children
        living theirs.
Mercea Eliade describes religion as a bridge.
        It touches simultaneously earth and heaven:
                what was and what is and what ought to be.

Driving between the rows of oaks
you know we build well and wisely.
        And that building stretches like a rainbow.

                                                          Rudy