It is Sunday morning. I am driving from
The Laurel Highlands through Ligonier
through Derry through Blairsville past
Homer City past Indiana to south
of Punxsutawney to home. A little under
two hours. My processional, my hymn,
my prayer, my offering, my sermon, communion,
benediction, recessional. There’s little traffic
as if this morning retains some vestiges
of worship, some sacred, holy scent falling,
rising in the air. It may edge beyond noon.
Perhaps to the border of Monday. Perhaps
longer if this unhurried time can be remembered.
It’s as if everyone knows it’s Sunday morning
on these Pennsylvania secondary roads,
villages, towns, hillsides and fields. Every act
a promise kept without any promise being made.
I got home and entered that sanctuary, the fallen
leaves off my porch like fallen prayers to be answered.
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