It is Sunday morning.  I am driving from

The Laurel Highlands through Ligonier

through Derry through Blairsville past

Homer City past Indiana to south 

of Punxsutawney to home.  A little under

 two hours.  My processional, my hymn,

my prayer, my offering, my sermon, communion,

benediction, recessional.  There’s little traffic

as if this morning retains some vestiges

of worship, some sacred, holy scent falling,

rising in the air.  It may edge beyond noon.

Perhaps to the border of Monday.  Perhaps

longer if this unhurried time can be remembered.

It’s as if everyone knows it’s Sunday morning

on these Pennsylvania secondary roads,

villages, towns, hillsides and fields.  Every act

a promise kept without any promise being made.

I got home and entered that sanctuary, the fallen

leaves off my porch like fallen prayers to be answered.

hootism:  don’t forget.  before the word there were the eyes that saw, the ears that heard, the heart that felt and then the word that fell.

get the art of  grilling: religious reflections at hootnhowlpoetry.com   “come and make your visit.”