O, little white church
with proud red roof
and window frames of blue,
stained glass, arched
but miniature,
your door is always open

but no-one's coming through

perched high in the air, inviting
bright as snow, and as pure of sin,
a happy rhythm delighting
at rocking you to the wind

the neighbors hung you
for the birds
but no-one's coming through

I admire your patient attitude
a constant old-fashioned welcome
the parish potential's good
such busy backyards to draw from

among pine, maple, white birch
candidates for your flock circulate
while the leaders of this church
seem eager for all patronage

but no-one's coming through

not even the full-dressed cardinal
who travels over this way
bothers to frequent you

everyday I pass your host tree
look within, but the fit's not for me
and no-one's head is poking out
for the sermon, chez Thee

unless they're either very fast
or they favor midnight mass

I'm wondering now if it may be
my timing's a little faulty,

gone to the birds
perhaps

~ ~ ~