Pew 47

At the end of each pew is a number,
a vestige of history where
families paid for the privilege
of being uncomfortable,

often for hours, paying for the chance
to be seen, or hidden as was your wont.
Today the numbers remain,
though few come, and few notice

that there is more comfort in these oaken pews
than most of us could imagine, more peace here
than we want to allow. Far better, we believe,
to flounder and let our spirits blow with the wind,

hoping that we fly in the wild breeze of life,
we are not so dizzy that we miss God entirely,
It is not that God lives only in the stillness,
but that it is only in the stillness that we find him.

About this poem

It’s been a wild week, and I have fought to keep my still times. Without them, I become less.

Kudos and acknowledgements on the picture. It’s not one of mine. My daughter took it while we were in Bath, England. I did cheat and make it black and white however, because it seemed like that’s what it really wanted to be.

Tom