HEXAGON PRESS

The trees provided a solemn cover

for the church weeping in its stony slump,

its buttresses are like broken twigs

covered in a mossy substance nestled

with ferns completing their arc.

For nature stayed beside the remains

and laid its textured hands on the colored

glass and prayed over the painted

folds in the minor prophet’s tunic.

The sun has set behind the western gate.

In the pines I saw their arms fall off and many

others surrounding the vessels are seeding

into the earth to anticipate the great harvest.

The branching of the leaves, the branching

of their veins beneath their waxen skin,

means they are meek and impressionable.