End of a cul-de-sac in an abandoned suburb,
surrounded by a plain of golden wheat,
as golden as the sun.
Musty and broken A-frame church,
mid-century bright and pretty and full
of light, shines for no one, or only one.
The starburst cross on the wall,
the altar empty and broken,
by our greed, restlessness undone.
I sleep in the old nursery, with a happy Jesus
and bright colors and a nostalgia glow
of a happier time before doubt.
I write words in my yellow, legal tablet,
trying to touch God, be touched by God,
in the ruins of a world left to those left out.
I remember, seeing something in the sun, once,
in an August morning, so bright and pure
that my child mind couldn’t help but shout.
The sanctuary still glows gold in late summer,
in the morning glow that may even be a Sunday morning
as I wait for her to come back from the war in Amarillo
I pray for her safety and bravery, and to know beyond this world,
when I wrap her in my arms again, the weight of her reality
and the softness of her kisses, the harsh breath from a cigarillo
and that we will be one flesh, and one spirit, complete, total,
made new in God’s sight and the musty gold and holy light
of this old church so full of light, as the fading trees still lush billow.