Silent pews sleep in the presence of that single flame,
emits a small glow that illuminates
the golden door of the tabernacle.
It guards this holy space from
corruption of those dark
winter nights full of thoughts that tempt
her people to seek warmth in places unknown,
sinfully in a mistress’ arms,
or the noose’s comfortable embrace.
Stained glass windows dimmed with no sun
to illuminate the colors which dance all summer.
Our artful stories lay still, dead- frozen in winter’s decay.
Without the spring’s light to bring them to life,
we forget the triumphant history,
and fall victim to actions whose motivation lies
in the grand escape of the frigidness
we see in ourselves only when the snow falls.
Crucifix a focal point in the muted chapel,
Head hung, Jesus’ death looms now,
more real than any Good Friday.
Caught in time, cold in a loincloth, our Jesus has
never seen snow. How shocked he must be to watch
the world die for more than three days,
The endless weeks drag on, sun disappeared,
His hope of resurrection dissipates.
The world seems truly an abandoned child,
forgotten by Our Father.