January 19, 2010
I have known the deep silence of bent heads,
believing, buried in thought—maybe blessed, maybe bitter—
but still. Still as the arms weighted down in the pews,
slabs of lead at stiff, still sides, hearing a lesson
painted in shimmers along the walls, fourteen shimmering stories
that eyes caress with emotions as leaden as immobile
arms and hands, the blues, the reds, the purples, the yellows
that somehow penetrate this absence of speech.
And I know that somewhere buried below the surfaces
through all the false shimmer in modernity—that somehow
in thought, the arms will be free—the thoughts will be lifted—
the lessons will penetrate, the painstaking work of learning
will cause the bent heads to rise, to breathe—in exaltation.