Drinking Coffee in a Church
A poem for Sunday
A woman in a fuzzy hat,
an Italian couple, a sweatered child.
We are all graceful from the light of the afternoon
and my tea tastes like a prayer.
How generous is the invisible hand,
to sweep its light toward every corner,
through the colors of the glass,
into our ceramic cups.
A child laughs,
and it echoes like a heartbeat.
All we’ve ever wanted was to belong, quiet
together with our little worships, our coffees and cakes.
How loudly we enter this place,
ringing all of our little bells,
and how silently we will leave it.
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