Vision of an Older Faith

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Car window turned to shale from sun 
burst, the car parked some summer 
Sunday there before the church 
house. Voices sing: “Spirit 
of God like a fire . . .” Shadows look firm
as rocks, as.dark as stars gone out, 

as still as roots. Against the church 
and cars they shrink up from the sun. 
This seventh day, the sky is firm 
in curve and color as any summer 
heated roof—a light without 
a face, photographic, spirit 

flashing. There in church how firrn 
a foundation’s set. We sang in church, 
I remember. A day out 
of childhood, tracked back through sun 
and year, memory of minutes, spirit, 
blood. A day that’s always summer,

unreal now, crafted out 
of an antique voice. I move infirm,
unceremonious in spirit, 
in these my latter days. Still, church
can conquer time—the heat of summer,
the unambiguous and burning sun. 

I am susceptible to spirit. 
Listen: closing prayer. There out 
of doors, blinking into summer, 
the congregation comes. How firm
my past belief. A light like suns 
unnumbered fell and restored church 

through a youthful Joseph. Many a summer
brought winter-sorrow, many a spirit-
loss. No primary noonday sun 
struck us. But out of word, out 
of song, faith, miracle, church 
was true for us and mountain-firm. 

Now out of that valley, I see that summer—
sunburst glass, church, the firm 
in spirit. Bright with sun surpassing sun.