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After Prayer

John T. Hitchner

In winter
the steeple raises a white sword to heaven.
Stained glass arcs freeze forgiving hands.
Huddled masses quicken pale-breath prayers
before bending home.

A bell tolls,
and sunset strikes the steeple sword,
shrouds the black bell in molten gold,
pierces blessed robes and hands,

while, in presence of unseen enemies,
the villager prepares his table,
bows his head,
prays forgiveness of lessons learned,
trespasses kept,
and waits his daily bread.

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