by Gideon Burton
Their faces, lit by windows warmed by sun
that angles through the morning's weighting light
as laundered azure, cool as snowfall, spun
in skeins of atmosphere of alpine height.
Throughout the church the stirring silence spreads
among the listeners, afraid to breathe,
to miss the holy word as it is read
by God inside the preacher. Silence wreathes
the pews, foregrounds the ringing voice and then
again the silence, animal of God
that preys among the listeners who spend,
again, an onion's skin of reverence, shod
with early, looming window rays, with rope
that winds the pulpit thin with thickened hope.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - AllAboutMormons.org