Confessional

It is an old face.
Wrinkles carve her skin.
A little hunched over as she sips her coffee
and confesses ancient sins,
sins of passion that still create light of passion
behind her eyes. She smiles slightly, remembering
and it occurs to you she is not confessing,
but remembering something precious
that has lived in her soul far longer
than the people who still live,
and remembering aloud is part of making the moment
eternal.

About this poem.

It must be the title. Part of the job description. People talk to me. People confess old sins. Most of which are no more than a special moment when something needed was filled. They confess. I listen. Maybe they know I am the secret-keeping type. Maybe they know I am slow to judge. Maybe they don’t care. Sometimes it is just time to let things loose and I was there.

This story is not directly from anyone else. It simply illustrates the point in a way that resonated with me. Perhaps too, with you.

The picture was taken in my church. Rupert Methodist.

Tom