Sunday morning sermons,
about the souls of the damned burning
in the lake of fire, seemed to a child
like the deeper truth
that made the sunshine streaming
through the tall windows a lie.
But Tuesday evenings brought the truth
I still live by; my mother put her coat
onto a pew and I lay down in the dark;
the only light in the church shone
on the choir. As they practiced,
their harmonies, like woven strands of love,
rose gently into the vastness of the night.
Choir Practice
11 Sunday May 2014
Posted Childhood, Love, Spirituality
in