I'm in the middle of harvest festivals at the various churches at which I serve and a friend recently sent me this poem by EE Cummings. It speaks to me.

I am a little church (no great cathedral)far from the splendour and squalor of hurrying cities– I do not worry if briefer days grow briefestI not sorry when sun and rain make Aprilmy life is the life of the reaper and the sower;my prayers are prayers of the earth’s own clumsy striving(finding and losing and laughing and crying) childrenwhose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness.Around them surges a miracle of unceasingbirth and glory in death and resurrection:over my sleeping self float flaming symbolsof hope, and I wake to a perfect patience of mountainsI am a little church (far from the franticworld with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature– I do not worry if longer nights grow longest;I am not sorry when silence becomes singingwinter by spring, I lift my diminutive spire tomerciful Him Whose only now is forever:standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)