The Baptist church on Razor Ridge is gone
this Sunday morning, faux stained glass
and gravel lot, the preacher’s clapboard house,
drowned in a rising lake of fog
that leaves the world an easy parable,
the evidence of things unseen
but certain as the cemetery stones
in their cloud-shrouded rows uphill.
Silent and heavy-winged, an angel floats
on air and water bound as one,
keeping a watch above the graves
where nothing rises from the earth but mist
even October’s failing sun
will be enough to burn away.
