~notes on abandonment issues



at the bottom of the hill

          and slightly to the right

an accumulated mourning of leaves

lies fresh-fallen and frosted

as a slow creek meanders along

like a folk song

and a little white church stands, quieted

the front door, boarded over

an architrave unsure of its purpose

          aching to open

window stains hold back a homily

of divinity

sunday no longer tolls 

the pealing bell silenced

where peeling paint covers

a cold throat of steeple that once

coughed up the coming winter chill

in a medley of rhythmic hymns

          of a savior’s birth

above the pitch and shingles

a passing vignette of canada geese

sharp against the sky

calling in unison

          calling home

the syllables of a lost sermon

the crumbled steps lead nowhere now

chrysanthemums bow their heads

and marigolds button up their blazers

as if to turn away from

the ruin of it all


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