On the day of your mother’s funeral
I sat staring at the ribs of the church,
arching wooden grace that spoke of things
higher than us.
Some days you cannot get warm.
The tears freeze on your cheeks, your lips
tremble blue, your toes are white.
Looking up and away from you
I found hallelujah in the curve of the ceiling,
the space, the air and her heart
contained in smooth wood.
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1 comment:
simply amazing...the part about the ceiling made me hold my breath for a moment.
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