Aunt Wilma Singing “The Holy City” in the Tiny White
Concrete Block Church in Sabbath Titusville
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
What feelings would my father have enjoyed
While sitting in the elder’s chair above
The congregation? Wilma’s singing toyed
With our emotions, but her brother’s love
Of her, her winging voice, his archives in
His mind from time on sung lagoon, all these
Were with him in the church, were there within
His heart and veins, the music and the breeze
Across the water as he rowed. Across
The water Wilma sang each holy note
In twilight, singing as the sacred gloss
Upon the waves flung out from heaven’s boat.
The years long gone, long gone ago rushed through
His soul. Jerusalem rushed every pew.
~ Phillip Whidden