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The Old Stone Church
by marci johnson
In this short time
grass is sprouting
between the scattered stones,
rough edges worn down
through the long years
of clinging together,
now reappear, sharpened
by some outside force
of destruction--
I saw it tumbling down,
my house of worship, memories
crumbling in plaster dust,
colorful carpet patches
from the nursery,
a forgotten hymnal,
and afterwards the familiar
blue of the sky and sun,
the quiet music of bees
vibrating like the pipe organ
my mother used to play
in the old stone church.