The faith that sings.
His eyelids to heaven,
Farmer shirt untucked,
Seedstress and cows and cloudbursts a temporary memory,
Palms for psalms
Mouthing the strange incantations.
Open your mind, boy.
This congregation of souls,
A sheen of hope over something true,
Between the amps and sheep fable,
Face to face around the token table,
A community building truth
That no wind or heat or flood could strip away.
Just melt this city,
Scorch it back to just these souls
Raze all buildings, all history
And watch it rise hand by heart again.
It was all too rock and roll for Winnie, but her man would have understood.
Farming is faith,
The impossible needs a pulpit.