The Church that Granddad Built
The old deserted church, sits by itself, weeping,
faded gray its time-worn wood and drooping cross,
its saints long-gone and living it up in another world.
If you listen carefully, you can still hear voices
of the choir, singing through the peeling shutters.
Sacred hymns riffling through broken down rafters.
Soft chords remember solemn, but happy Sundays.
Silent specters sing of joyful, love-filled days
of warm Sabbath mornings and long celebrations
of birth, marriage and death. Now the deer, the raccoon
the nocturnal owl-new parishioners worship through
broken windows and musty air of the silent altar.
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