27 St. Stephens

They gather to hear

be heard—harmonic sounds

of the heart. In their ripening

they descend

toting mugs for tea

in twos and threes arriving

in coats they hoped to leave

behind at Easter.

 

Cold and rainy out

they bring their warm inside

and with wooden windows open

they fill the living

 

room. Pillows, blankets

scooting chairs. Shy, shuffling laughter

a caesura before

 

the music begins

taking us inside the language

of the soul. Bared spirits

meet, speak

of that unseen.

Naked, fully clothed

we know.

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