this small church is seven eighths full of singers
if there is a god it’s woven in their one voice
one or no rehearsal and all have flocked to sing Messiah
we few to listen
and feel the weave of so many voices glimpse in the spaces separating each note each throat what lifts us all through hell to heaven and back
In sublime pain of memory I attempt to thread my prayer my spirit’s reach to my daughter who died
the powerful voices soar every type all together in one piece
anything is possible
the instruments cry out the solos move us forward in human script
the multitude chorus wraps us
church light dark and all into other dimensions
every cell in me and around me is alive
buoyed between and upon the great joining of voice the rolling wave of music
there between within each space
my heart stops and I see behind my eyelids the colors of my prayers