It is holy, to smooth a bed after rising from it

each morning, 4:30 in summer, 5:30 in winter.

Holy sitting on the toilets, long skirts around,

in the quiet New York hills.

…

To slide a hand along the rail of the curved stair

circling in perfect scale, precision and simplicity

from the third floor to the second to the first.

To greet each brother and sister, eat.

Holy the dance – quiver, circle the room, raise hands

in God song, and let them fall. Then to holy work,

neither hurry nor waste. The loom stands, the thread lies,

and hands pass shuttles back and forth

…

and every warp and every woof sings for joy

of crossing, meeting, binding, pressed tightly into cloth.

The coat is sewed and pressed, the coat is worn,

the coat gives praise to God.