Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
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May the leaves teach release without calling every loss beautiful. May the field after harvest
Blessed are those who aren't sure. Blessed are those who came to church for the singing, stayed for the quiet,
I don't pray the way I was taught—on my knees, hands folded, words memorized like a password to heaven.
I don't know what I believe but I know the feeling when the light hits the kitchen table
What I think about most is not the miracles— the water, the wine,
Sunday morning. Before the sermon. Before the hymns and the handshakes.
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