Monday, June 26, 2006
Sunday Shoes
I never thought of trees as wood. Wood was this base stuff, lumber,so many rotten planks with rusty nails stuck deep in knots,
smacking into baseballs in the heat.
Trees were alive, and not in that biological way -
with souls, or maybe gods.
That's why I climbed up, that heavy Sunday afternoon,
white church shoes still strapped to my feet -
soles slippery, like souls, and belonging there in the heat
so much more than within clean walls of colored glass.
Slipped,
fell,
took communion with handfuls of leaves in my hands.
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