Church House

When I sing about
”This Little Light of Mine,”
I think of a white church house
Beaconing humbly on a hill.

Forward facing,
Feet-too-short,
Mustard tweed pews;
And Grandma’s Zebra gum.

The round manila button
On the mounted water fountain
Is worn smooth
Under my short finger.

Cousin Jimmy’s chin
Reaches down to his chest,
As he bellows baritone
With bended-elbow waving.

Styled Sunday wigs crown
Aunts Joan, Lou & Etholene;
Their needle-point cushions
Have marked their spot all week.

Morning light fights
Through the amber window panes,
Casting a golden glow
On everyone inside.

Mounted on wood-paneled walls,
The letter board records
Last week’s modest attendance,
Offering & Sunday School.

On a good day,
The heavy-hanging curtains
Will be cranked back
For a baptism.

Church is when
I get to sit close to mom,
Absorbing every snuggle,
From first song
To the last Amen.

The room always smells like food;
I guess we only visit on potluck days.