They Went To The River

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They didn’t go to church.

They went to the river.

The deep river they’d crossed

again and again.

 

There were gathering places

for the Sabbath

where the scrolls were unrolled

morning petals opening to the new light.

A wide open circular room

welcoming

empty chalice of space

save hearts hoping from more manna.

 

Yet, they went to the river.

The one they crossed

from captivity to freedom.

To the camp ground where the god

refused a house of wood and

kept to his tent as well.

They had traveled so far together.

 

They returned to the river.

Where memories ran.

Someone was preaching there.

Calling them home

again and again.

 

They put the beasts to rest

Tethered the plough

put down the needle and thread.

Left the leaven

rising in the sweet morning air

to cross the corn fields, the pasture lands,

the portico to

listen, listen

to a soft young-man voice

reading from the rolling waters

the story of their lives and his.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


		
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