The Church

Hidden down past the pine tree a church. Its rusty door hinges. Its once-a-month service and its cold wooden floor. Glazed windows and half mowed lawn, stumps of trees, cut to allow the sunlight, and the silent visitor, his dirty shoe-prints still visible from his last visit. Tablets with words, letters missing and covered in vines, sleep near the door. And behind the church, a raised mound and a glass, half filled, with drooping flowers. -Billy Allen