A night when God means nothing will be the night When stars no longer speak, anvil silent From already trying to awe others Into believing in some answer That has no voice. They'll mock passing hours Short-wicked with vigil light when a dark cathedral Does not hide its Big Empty too well, altar Candles wing-burning into something far Less than the room's tiny universe, Shadow-flamed & God-quiet. Something stirs A longing one no longer had. Faith lightens That stone of silence at the end of amen. Outside, the last leaves preach their own gospel, Bless-uss, Bless-uss, black oak canopy cradled Beneath the forgiveness of soft-spoken starlight.
Greg Sellers is the recipient of a Ruth Lilly Poetry Fellowship and a Pushcart Prize nomination. In 2002 he was awarded a literary artist fellowship by the Mississippi Arts Commission for a manuscript-in-progress entitled Black Magnolia. He resides in Vicksburg, Mississippi, with his wife and two children. firstname.lastname@example.org