The church,
tucked away
from the passing caravan,
clean and straight
as a piece of furniture
the town has forgotten

stands unchanged by winds
of eager pollen blown away.
The doors were opened
in past seasons,
green berries grew
and sang
and played
and plucked strains of hope.

The windows gleamed
brightness of sun
color of parrots flew
in lush tropics.

But now a thin gray patina
covers the calloused pews
made straight and orderly
by icebergs
that have sucked out the warmth.

In the back, a stooped figure,
half kneeling, hunched over,
clutches a rosary
of fossils strung together
by her sorrows.

Is she dried up
praying for death?
Have her progeny left her
like sailboats skimming across the mirage
in the distance?

Is she lonely and afraid
or at peace with her maker
who is soon to pluck her soul
for a final harvest?

I hear echoes:
cries of infants,
children’s feet
running the aisles,
exuberance
joyful noise
earnest questions
amber awakenings
tearful healings
eager planting.

New life
pulses
all around.

I hear echoes
but they are faint.

06/27/2011

Posted on 06/28/2011
Copyright © 2025 Glenn Currier