Good Friday

You come unbidden, a night wind
kicking up dust, a kid with his can
of soup, five cents back at the factory
in Minnesota, too bad you’re in Tennessee
and the woods close in on all
sides, a family surrounding a baby’s crib,
cooing, doves on the branches, a creek
burbling under them, rocks sighing in
the coolness, a breeze of water on their
parched skin, a balm, from Gilead maybe,
the banks like pews all down the aisle
on Sunday, acolytes with their slow
deliberateness, lighting the candles, the soul
of christ has come to visit us again
for about an hour or so, we have
to get out in time for football.