A little cross and steeple yet remain
Thistles and thorns embellish the yard
Once lush with grass and dandelion
There is inch thick dust on the pew
And the pulpit is splintered plywood
A stained glass window is broken and left
Broke by some rock throwing passerby
A stream now runs beneath the floorboards
Carrying dirty water to the cornfield beyond
To nourish the pasture where lazy cows graze
And to muddy the clean rows of stalks and stems
How ridiculous it would be for a crow to light
On the steep-pitched roof, yet the spring birds
Fly over, meandering unconsciously over the scene
As the smell of dung wafts through the air
‘There is no license on loneliness,
Though your part be larger,
My piece of the pie is plenty to eat
And of course mine has more thumbs in it….’
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