The Hayloft Always Feels Like Church


Spring in The Cathedral

New leaves yellow-green

turned over against warm, steel-grey sky

Opening the rose window of the loft door,

I find sanctuary from a baptism of rain.

Dewlap-clad gospel singers

gobble their praise of the weather as

the congregation skitters on paws;

flutters on bat-wings;

spins on eight legs;

stomps their hooves

Munching a liturgy of fragrant, green Host

they snort a benediction to May’s altar wine

I inhale alfalfa’s incense sharing their sweet sacrament

Here there is no Hell below

Only, ascension on horse feathers.

–Photo & Poem by Rebecca L. Fox

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