Meetinghouse

What will happen to this little building

At rest upon a verdant hill,

When crops long sown have stopped their yielding

And farmhands spend their morning zeal

 

Who will, in darkness, come to light fires

Under the old tongue-and-groove roof,

And gather ‘round the trembling red spires

To weep, to shout, with the awful truth

 


© 2017-2019 The Hidden Press. All Rights Reserved.

A Fire in July

Who would be so foolish, to light
a fire in July
To lay limb upon limb until
the flames stand ten feet high

Who would be so foolish, to let
a fire land such blows
To burn so hot its flames lick
the dirt around one’s soul

Who would be so foolish?
Only those who hate the cold

 


© 2017-2019 The Hidden Press. All Rights Reserved.