A rainy Sunday morning
And the sound from three blocks away
Pushing through the foggy quietude,
The ringing of the First Presbyterian bell
A sound soft but strong
Sharp thud
Escaping into the neighborhood,
Which is long accustomed to the old voice.
The ring is no stranger to the
Hair-like moss dripping from oaks and magnolias
Hanging high over the cracked blacktop
Chipped red brick hiding underneath.
The ring grabs the ears and imagination
And I can see the red-robed choir
Ready for the procession and
An acolyte, maybe my son,
Leading the whole holy bunch of them
Into a sacred hour out of step with the times
But into an eternity,
As I lie flat on my back at home
Listening to the bell and a fire in the hearth
And to a little voice that whispers
“Be still and you will heal.”
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