Concrete Sidewalks Are My Family’s Prayerbooks

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

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