Let us go out and stand for a while
in the deserted, back-country church
of an old iron bridge—plate, beam
and rusty rivet—a place of light
with lofty rafters framing heaven,
with enormous triangular windows
depicting the world in October,
with brown and yellow willow leaves
drifting onto a trickle of creek
meandering toward us on one side
and slipping away on the other—
lesson, sermon, collection and hymn—
a place through which so many lives
have passed and so many prayers
and hopes have been carried away
that now it rings with silence.
Leaves are falling. Take my hand.