Sunday Morn

The broad dark sky was tree-lined,
Such a vast expanse of gray.
Clouds they were, spilling rain,
On a Sunday morn, but there was no field of corn.
Only Black asphalt paved the way
To the steepled roof, where people knelt to pray
And sing as they did, with hands outstretched
Voices aloft,
Weeping.
And the man with gestures
Spoke and walked to and fro
Extrapolating certain meaning
From the small words in the big book.
Alters were built,
And should be built, he said,
As I held your hand.
Wells were dug and wells are good,
He said,
As I recalled the rain
Then drew an imaginary ring on your finger,
Smiling,
Hoping that it would not wash away in the rain.
This world is unkind,
Said the nice gesturing man,
And I think that he is right