best at F11
Sonnets
Poet Lariat
LOCALITY
My church is rooted to the ground
fixed in place;
its members likewise bound
in time and space.
Immobile, they are born and die,
birthed and buried, year by year.
What is, is what is seen by eye
and heard unaided by the ear.
All else is other, stands apart,
is measured by locality.
“Sleep here!” That is the better part!
“Move on?” Irrationality!
While Jesus has no place to lay his head
the church’s way is worn that leads to bed.
Poems from the Eighth Decade
Copyright © Harold Macdonald 2004
used with permission