noon sun shining through stark trees
high sky reminder we’re flying through space
the faithful gather under the unblinking gaze
of silver King Jesus on a flying cross
(just a wee bit out of place)
gray heads nodding along
more compelling than the sermon
“a mark of our mortal nature”
shuffle forward to the altar rail
wood worn by generations
saints long past
and those yet to come
all us us, Dust,
returning to dust
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