9:23 a.m. … Across wet drive
Grace Lutheran church’s parking lot sits
empty. Earlier, no 8:45
bell calling faithful for morning service.
No light inside, stark sight on this rain-soaked
day when millions honor the risen Light.
In my writing room, my glazed eyes still cloaked
in semi-sleep, I honor glowing light
of my monitor, my fingers, keyboard
recording our small history. A rare
hawk soars past my twin windows. Bach’s bright chords
fill the townhouse. My mind wanders: the fair
lady in the valley. My daughter’s rooms
of art. My mother’s womb. The empty Tomb.
Roger Armbrust
April 12, 2020
