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