The Steeple of Ste. Odile

Dear Ste. Odile, 
Do you not see the point? 
I chose you quite by chance 
My sheer sister 
From among all the others 
To be the gnomon 
Whose measured shadow falls 
On all my delicate sorrows 

I was thinking only 
Of the sharp beauty 
That you sew into the sky 

Why did you draw me 
An arbitrary pilgrim? 
For I lost myself 
In the high dwindling 
Of your Gothic schemes 
As you raised 
Your long, ascetic finger 
Warning the insouciant 
streets 
To behave and pay attention