he in his elegant black sits in the corner <br /> <br /> will he touch... tread.. lightly between the rows <br /> of the american gothic families <br /> <br />their drawn out figures seem to fasten <br /> throughout the lengthy periods of the sanctuaries silence. <br /> <br /> that same silence forged in the dusty seminaries <br />of luthern chapels keeps him sitting so very still <br />with folded hands and a hymnal upon his knee. <br /> <br /> will he stoop.. pray... recall the years. <br /> or count the pews that seem to separate <br />him from the rest of the flock. <br /> <br /> perhaps someone should give <br /> him some bread half to remember <br />and half to forget. <br /> <br /> now the interpretation of saints <br /> and sinners dreams shines <br />through the stained glass <br />window to his right. <br /> <br /> the scattered light comforts him <br /> as it sifts and showers down in <br />shades of green and light yellow. <br /> <br /> it moves through him slowly like <br /> a fathers voice breaking upon the <br />sinews of the hardened wooden pews. <br /> <br /> and diligence is kept and heard <br /> as hymns are sung in the early morning.<br /><br />nathan martin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/charter-oak-church/
