His church doesn’t have walls.
It’s bird song, railroad track,
face to the wind hallelujahs
sung to a congregation of trees.
He’s heard too much hell from pulpits,
too much stained-glass high horse,
to be comfortable trying to speak
to God through all that hot air.
He wants to be where he can soar,
not be glued to a pew where judgement
is quicksand, and sin confessing
earns first chair in the choir.
©Susie Clevenger 2019