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There are many born again or dreaming
of it, another lot wishing
their frailty would end. What
if I were smitten today
under this dogwood tree, moss
dangling in my car window.
You think I mean death? What of love,
of revelation? The church is quiet.
A lawn mower breaks the Sabbath
but all the birds are singing holy. We could
make too much of this or, more likely, find
it just the end of another day. Lord,
you might say, then again, maybe not.
Included in Vox Populi by permission of the publisher.