by Alex Ward

Might there be flowers sometimes 
growing at the base of the
church wall, the old, weathered
church wall,
might there be bluebells,
might the church sometimes be
actually of Heaven,
might the church be the echoing
House of God, the
conch that He blows to rouse the
believers,
might God even pick the church up,
look in it with one eye
squinting to see all the believers?
He sees people, He knows their
names, their lives, every
hair on their head,
but really, it’s just people and 
He loves them all.
He turns the church upside down
and shakes them out like
salt on His table,
God salts the bread with the
people of His church,
might God salt the bread
with the people of His
church? Might God break the bread
and the wine, might God sing along
out of tune with the hymns 
just for fun, might God be here 
among us in every form, every manner,
every way, might God be in the cat,
in the tire’s screech, in weeds, 
in the wrong order at Hardee’s,
in the weariness of the single mother
who has to work a double shift,
in Shohei Ohtani’s baseball bat,
in mama’s wig, might God be forgiveness
in every boorish thing the president says?
Might God be the power and the glory,
The Almighty, might not God be terrible and
trembling, eating Ezekiel wheels for
breakfast drowned in the milk of the blood
of the martyrs, might not God be our God, mine, 
yours, Yahweh, Jehovah, the Ineffable,
Unnamable Name, the Lord of Hosts,
The Alpha and Omega, amen? 
At the base of the church there are little
green things growing, may the people be
these, may the heavens be these,
may God and all things be forever 
green things growing.

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Alex Rainey Ward is a poet, novelist and songwriter. The first poem he ever wrote was for an Arbor Day contest; he won, and with some other children got to plant a tree by the river. He recently became a grandfather.