Golden Days

Golden Days

Darrel L. Hammon

The golden days arrive on time,
lingering longer each year,
allowing the ivory-colored,
daintily steepled church to bask
in the gilded aura of fall.
The church on its earthly bench
has always overseen fall,

like some watchman in the wilderness,

surrounded by rocks, carried stoically
by parishioners, too poor to pay
but not too poor to serve their God,
from the creek bed just down the hill
amid hanging branches, brambles,
and bugs, placing them just so

to provide a sanctuary for the faithful
and privacy and refuge to those
who come to confess.
Its red encased windows,
some round, some small,
allow the sun to enter and spread
its warmth and miracles among the pews

and finger-worn hymnbooks.
The leaves fell last night
or maybe the day before.
No one has passed by with haste
to disturb the golden brown leaves.
They just lie there, covering
the silent footsteps that for years

have slowed before the church,
hoping, just hoping that someone
would come out, greet them, invite them in,
encase them in joy and reconciliation.
Now, the Church just sits, overseeing the majesty
that surrounds it, soaking in the glory
that comes through the fall.