"God is all," pure-robed, green-clothed
men claim, Surrounded by cold, white
stone and hard, vaulted wood.
A sliver of what they mean
Hits me a beam shot from a crack of a window,
From high, high up, white and warm,
As I sit, passive as a lamb, listening.
Pastel girls march obediently like dropped
Down, down a hill to cold, artificially lit
Sunday school rooms,
Shuffled and sheltered cards we are, bustled
from sanctuary to out-of-doors to classroom,
From dark to light to dark again,
We blink at each transition, our eyes confused,
In that worldly wrestling match elusive answers
are thick as fog to whetstone challenges
with no right replies.
Sunday school is a drought to the thick rains
of tangible knowledge the world requires.
"God is in all," blue-jeaned, t-shirted peers
A ring of faces glows darkly, subtly in the
This is the physical proof, World, take it!
But you won't take it, as you selfishly consume
all else in your expanse.
But I will give it, passively, as a patient
mother leaves medicinal tea or soda crackers
by a child's bed.