Walking past the small church
on the corner today, so unassuming
that you might miss it, I stopped
nearly piercing the chilly blue sky,
a steeple once lit with the living spirit,
or so we were assured as children.
I could almost hear my mother
singing those old country hymns
across the crackling airwaves,
long out of fashion, but reaching out
for whomever might need them.
"Get in touch with God," she would sing
in earnest, "Turn your radio on."
What strikes me now is the silence,
not of reverence but of neglect,
as if the neutral brick and worn boards
were sinking into themselves.
Perhaps it is the quiet of knowing,
the calm certainty of not having
to meet every voice with your own.
But the old transmitter glints brightly
in the sun, reaches toward the heavens,
as if in expectation, and the songs
my mother once sang are now
mine alone to hum as I walk on by.
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