In the northwest, winter mornings come late, opaque,
And one day when the sun hovers but does not rise,
I drift off, more tired than I knew. When I look north
I barely see an outline of light, just tracing
The top of the cedars. I look west and see our
Local church is having its last ever service,
The faithful come two by two, their breath trailing frost.
The last preacher of this last dream church now lays out
The final doctrine, that our light has come, and it’s
Us, and always was us. “Like Jesus said, we are
The light of the world; the bible also says, ‘Now
Faith is being sure we will get what we hope for,’
And what could be better than that? Go in peace.” I
See a few of the older ones standing at the door,
Lingering, hoping that at this last hour they’d sing
A song of the Lord, in this last house where such love
And sorrow meet.
And the preacher would like to, what a lovely thought,
But they cut all that out years ago, and it’s almost
Noon, and damned if he can remember one.