They didn’t go to church.
They went to the river.
The deep river they’d crossed
again, and again.
There were gathering places,
where scrolls unroll,
morning petals opening in the new light,
hearts seeking within
the empty chalice,
the archive of an ancient memory.
Yet they went to the river.
The one they crossed
from captivity to freedom
to the campground where their god
refused a house made of wood and
kept to his tent outside the city gate.
They had traveled far together.
They went to the river
where promises were kept.
They put the beasts to rest
tethered the plough
put down the needle and thread.
Left the leaven
rising in the sweet morning air,
across corn fields,
through pasture lands,
beyond the portico
listen to his soft young-man voice
recounting across the rolling waters
the story of their lives, and his.