No one should, on a Sunday, sit outside
An empty church, and lonely, on a step
Half-covered with the snow, half-empty-eyed,
Sigh to herself. Why is the wide transept
Not open to her, warming, comforting?
Why are the doors shut up and barred within?
She can still hear the children's choir sing,
Its false sopranos cautioning from sin,
Hear the new priest address his straying flock,
The whispers in the pews. But she is still
Outside; why were the doors made with a lock
That open to community? What will
The landlord say, when he returns to judge
Those who have closed their doors upon a grudge?
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