October Poem 52: The Winding Paths

The light through the glass cross opening on

His April of persistence, the old man

Stared toward the altar of an empty church.

Why with the melting frost in his hair had

He watched the blood boil on the kettle

Whistling like the distance between him and

His wife? Why had he poured it out over

The separate teabags in separate cups to

Let them steep in their own loneliness? Why

Place the cups on separate table ends to

Grow ice cold while he stood staring out the

Window at the golden light watching the

Winter grow short and cold? And why now in

The cathedral does he contemplate God?


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