On a beautiful fall morning, the words of Sunday’s
anthem leaped, live and full-born,
from the mouths of the small choir.
“Holy, holy, holy” the twelve voices sang, clear and
the harmony close and true,
lifting the worshipper to a huge, sparkling place
he’d never been before,
a vast upper region under high, lofty arches,
the music holding him there
in comfort, without fear, without thought,
until the anthem slowly subsided
and he was, once again, seated quietly in the pew,
his tears already drying on his lined face.
How is it that a pocket choir can pack power
to lift ten times its own vocal weight
in such secrecy?
How is it that a little church on the corner
can become a huge cathedral on the square,
and no one notice?
From Best Poets of 2015
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