The New Church
The old cupola glinted above the clouds, shone
among fir trees, but it took him an hour
for the half mile all the way up the hill. As he trailed,
the village passed him by, greeted him,
asked about his health, but everybody hurried
to catch the mass, left him leaning against fences,
measuring the road with the walking stick he sculpted.
He yearned for the day when the new church
would be built—right across the road. Now
it rises above the moon: saints in frescoes
meet the eye, and only the rain has started to cut
through the shingles on the roof of his empty
house. The apple trees have taken over the sky,
sequestered the gate, sidled over the porch.
among fir trees, but it took him an hour
for the half mile all the way up the hill. As he trailed,
the village passed him by, greeted him,
asked about his health, but everybody hurried
to catch the mass, left him leaning against fences,
measuring the road with the walking stick he sculpted.
He yearned for the day when the new church
would be built—right across the road. Now
it rises above the moon: saints in frescoes
meet the eye, and only the rain has started to cut
through the shingles on the roof of his empty
house. The apple trees have taken over the sky,
sequestered the gate, sidled over the porch.
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Disclaimer
We do not accept unsolicited submissions. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2016 by Lucia Cherciu, “The New Church,” from The Broadkill Review, (Vol. 10, Issue 2, 2016). Poem reprinted by permission of Lucia Cherciu and the publisher. Introduction copyright © 2024 by The Poetry Foundation.