Monarch butterfly
dances into view.
Miniature stained glass windows
illuminate my world.
Grandaddy preached in tiny Virginia churches,
where white steeples reached above the countryside,
idle cows grazed and silence prevailed.
Until Sunday
when paper fans fluttered in every woman’s hands
to ward off the summer heat,
moving the morning’s message into willing parishioners.
Colorful dresses, Sunday’s best clothes
tight fitting collars and once-a-week suits filled the pews.
Joy and community
emanated throughout the building
and beyond.
Quiet sermons
hymnals held open and shared.
Songs of centuries
Belief
So far to come,
so far to go.
Every Sunday morning
I grew
up.
