Sunday comes again,
same as the week before.
My shoes firmly on my feet,
I reach the sacred temple.
I see the same people every week,
wearing their Sunday best,
searching for absolution.
The wood is firm,
holding us in place,
keeping us focused.
We are both preacher and choir,
our breath, call and response.
The longer the service,
the closer we come to truth.
And only when we’ve found our higher power,
and confessed our sins for the week,
do we feel complete, whole again.
Next week will come calling,
same as this and those prior.
And we’ll congregate again,
our dirt church calling us home.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Photo by Simon English on Unsplash
