The New Church

The old cupola glinted above the clouds, shone

among fir trees, but it took him an hour

for the half mile all the way up the hill. As he trailed,

the village passed him by, greeted him,

asked about his health, but everybody hurried

to catch the mass, left him leaning against fences,

measuring the road with the walking stick he sculpted.

He yearned for the day when the new church

would be built—right across the road. Now

it rises above the moon: saints in frescoes

meet the eye, and only the rain has started to cut

through the shingles on the roof of his empty

house. The apple trees have taken over the sky,

sequestered the gate, sidled over the porch.