the roadside church

the church
with a modest steeple,
high enough to be reached,
is bordered
neatly by a milk white fence,
the old clapboards
tightened by
fresh nails,
holding things together
for another meeting.
spring daffodils
in bloom
planted in straight rows,
by one or two of the more
faithful
in the flock
are admired and praised
in the sunday
morning bulletin.
if you come early
enough you can have pancakes
and prayer, hot coffee,
fellowship with those
who are just like you.
the church stands
next to a hillside
cemetery that rolls
like new carpet out to
where the trees line
the road. it holds those
who've come and gone,
who once sat,
or slept soundly through
stale sermons
in the pews. the graves
are well kept,
both trimmed
and swept
of what the wind
brings forth.
it's a good church,
a pale mint green paint
adorning the walls,
the simple cross hanging
without blood
or Christ, or thorns.
no angry words
just the sweet sound
of a choir comes out
in the early morning.
it's a pleasant place to go
and worship,
to be saved,
to be found,
then go home.