My Sunday shoes are grey and purple, formed
to sprint and not to kneel in prayer. Against
their will, we walk as darkness is restored.
If you, my neighbor, peered and snagged a glimpse,
you might admire our weekly, reverent hour.
And maybe you consider how we leave
a wisp of breath, communion shared by four.
And maybe from your window you believe
our pious steps and see a family walk.
And maybe whispers from the ice can hide
our hymns, our creeds, our sacraments. Our talk,
absorbed by purifying snow, just might
expose our sins. But you, dear neighbor, all
you see and hear is man before the Fall.
By Piper Daleiden