Night pours down
dripping dark off the steeple
and running shadowy rivulets
in the rain gutters on the sloped roof.
But a deep river of brightness
floods the walk, and shadowy beings hurry in,
tripping to the sound of music, toward hope,
and always two by two.
Inside it is all light
hearty air and good folks, laughing about life,
patting one another on the back.
Each one is loving his neighbor.
Reverence and high notes
issue from pink lips, the mouths of working women.
They hold the heavy psalms, in blue-backed books,
tight between capable fingers.
Here the pews are cushioned, and
the air conditioning rushes up between the aisles,
up under the pretty floral skirts
of the parishioners, mothers and wives.
And the good old words from
that good old book, spoken by the good old people
of this good old town, lift me by my
deep red heartstrings.
