April 18, 2007

Good Friday Recessional

The silence.
Clinks from the chain
of the censer.
Wood groaning beneath
the weight of feet.
No song, no celebration.
Only the unspeakable speaks.
So we come to terms with
what we are without
our word, our art.

—Gale Swiontkowski

Posted by dwaber at April 18, 2007 12:02 PM