For my pastor, whose sermons we missed for three weeks
The Word stands dusty on a corner shelf,
Cobwebbed with worry, feathered with the soft
Gray stuff that gathers through unreading years,
Its binding nibbled by some modern moth.
And then you take it down. You dust it off
And all the mould of higher criticism
Flicks in dried-out flakes and whispers free
And briefly bears away my cynicism.
For those moments when you mouth the Word—
Rustle its leaves with laughter, color in
The black-and-white type wit the hues of light—
My mental spiders, freed from mortal sin
Dance in the live, dry air of Palestine.
And then you close the Book, and it goes dead, till next time.
© 2010, Sørina Higgins. Do not use this work in any way without permission from the author.