Friday, September 26, 2008

church not made with hands


A delicate romance under a sheltering sky.
Fragments of the winter, of sadness, suspended in the air.
I think I know what they might be.
Stars, miniature pianos with quiet ivories,
like Buddhist sutras hovering over and holding fast
the fields of Wichita, the fields of Finlandia.

Seemingly Nordic, a Great Plain blizzard huddles us close,
a prairie prayer frozen just beyond our lips.

At once offered, at once answered.

A change in the weather and bright blue sky abides.
Almost overlooked, unspoken roses blooming in a kiss,
as we vow silently to keepsake this moment,
this momentary architecture of no longer longing.

photo by thomas paul goertel

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