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Sagged guides have wrinkled lines
on serene faces with pruned hands

and they kneel frailly
with bended creaking knees,
dressed in feeble pale colors
that givingly glow under orange tinge.

Observingly I watch
the familiarity of their focus,
dedicants to life longing.

Daily goers of the mass,
are few and they speckle about
hollow bench seats, long and rubbed wood,
among silence, graceful adorn.

Parishioner pioneers
leave me agape and unburdened
to carry it.

I move to sit benched to hard, green, painted wood;
air in cold crisps
that direct coy leaves to planted feet
and birds in thin trees warble and trill.
I hear sounds of growth.





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