Through a window

I read a poem each Sunday Our pastor calls this Ministry
of Verse I try to find a poem not just she but anyone
will get A short poem if I can for fear someone like Timmy
who isn’t all that into poems to begin with may complain

I try to select some lines that represent what I believe
and more or less what the people there believe I have friends too
outside the church who cannot believe that I in fact believe
say in miracles They ask can you really believe they’re true

exactly Poems cannot be exact I’m thinking how I’ll sound
My vanity lives on I don’t read my poems which grow shorter
as I grow old I once imagined I must go on and on
to get at things I thought I knew but I know more than ever

I know nothing now No my friends I don’t believe exactly
in miracles I believe inexactly I see Mary
Magdalene just for instance in that garden quite unclearly
Still I see her I see Tess as well who’s married to Timmy

and seems confused Well she is confused Dementia has her down
Her husband’s there He holds her hand Timmy holds things together
I’ve thought at times like anybody I couldn’t hold my own
yet I’m alive I hear a bird sing one small massive wonder