The sun I saw
was not the pale light, fresh,
of this November.
But the gold-bronze rays
of my childhood
spilled down church sanctuary aisles
between two rows of pews
and stained glass windows
pointed in tall triangles, prescient,
to a yellowing carpet,
not yet old but aging,
slipping through my fingers
like my childhood. I see
the warm-blooded smiles
of my grandparents
and the sound of laughter
and hymns played on banjos,
my palms pressed together
in prayer and joy
and love;
it was that sun.
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