The Last Fire Burns the Hearth
the last fire burns the hearth
another day rung into reality.
street sounds dim, silence waits
suspended between chimes.
Sunday city deserted,
commerce denned up
in the suburbs.
no prayers today,
the dead clank
of frozen church bells
barely falling
beyond the church spire.
snow drifts, sifts into every
crack and crevice of an aged face
eyes closed in seeming
peace filled slumber.
great beauty and dignity
adorn the alabaster of his skin.
a small brown bird huddles close
the old fellow picks it up to shelter
from the careless cold.
he rests propped against
sacred walls, among small things.
grey-worn, crumpled
like discarded paper ads, unread.
come morning a sparrow hops
from between prayer folded hands.
without one backward glance
it erupts into an ecstatic dawn
unaware of his benefactor’s parting gift.
Copyright © Patricia Cresswell | Year Posted 2017
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