Black Box

Unstained Glass

I think that I cannot rise again.

From the stoop of these anachronous pews.

My old bones have resonated, grown wood grain,

groan in sedentary obstinance.

There is cold winter afternoon sun,

spindling delicate shining web

reaching for me, through chapel windows.

And trees just beyond, waving, beckoning me home.

Bury me beneath bare branches.

And visit me with wildflowers in the spring.

I am far too weary to want any longer,

Too cold to keep the flame.