That Sunday The air is still as the morning light pours down, covering the little village in hazy gold. The church is poised against the olive green hills and the tiny steeple points toward God. A dozen souls crowd the ancient brownstone and pray their prayers of timeless longing, their voices echoing in the narrow brick streets. The universe pauses, enfolds, and incorporates. Some prayers will be answered, and some will wind on through the labyrinth of centuries.
Joan E. Cashin writes from the Midwest, and she has published in many journals including Soft Cartel, Down in the Dirt, Riggwelter, Mono, and Months to Years.
Amethyst Review 