Church/ daily poem

There is damp, still air among
this church made up of trees.
The giant maples are speaking in slow
creaks. The Oaks are letting  go
of their tiniest dried out leaves.

I know a one room church;
wooden planks and wooden nails.
Once, I found the door unlocked,
swung it open. I intruded,
walking lightly across the
red center carpet, disturbing 
religious silence and
window squares of dusty, sunlit air.

Through the open door,
swirls of white and gray
clouds swallowed sun and sky.
The wind found a way through,
sweeping my skin cold and
slamming the door.

For a moment, I could see
this church as refuge
and this fast moving weather as
a creature who could harm us.

Then, the closed air swallowed
my breath and God
did not seem to be here
but more out there.
So, I pushed open the door
and stood between church and sky.
imagining God and I, watching.