Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
Choose a genuine response. Counts appear only after several readers agree.
I don't know what I believe but I know the feeling when the light hits the kitchen table
Blessed are those who aren't sure. Blessed are those who came to church for the singing, stayed for the quiet,
Praise the cracking open of the seed, the blind ambition of the buried root, the robin's first bewildered, breathless creed
What I think about most is not the miracles— the water, the wine,
Sunday morning. Before the sermon. Before the hymns and the handshakes.
Ninety feet between the bases. Someone measured this and got it perfectly right.
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