Written in Church, December 23, 1979

The church of my childhood 
was redbrick, too. 
Smug and warm inside, I’d 
watch the snow battling the windows 
or one cold star in the cold sky 
and rejoice at being inside with Mama 
and the choir 
hymning the wintry day to its close. 

In blue by the covered wagon, 
the pioneer woman poised above us 
on choir breath 
whispered, “Fear not, fear not/⁷ 
Godwrapped in that singing room, 
What was there to fear? 

Tonight in maturity’s church 
goodbye who I was in the 
warm silent service with snow fighting 
to break through the windows of my youth
and ghost voices forever echoing 
down the dusk and farewell of the wintry day. 

Hello at last, cold star and blowing snow, 
and you, my pioneer sister, 
with your grave and steady eyes 
who knew so well what there was to fear, 
and feared not.