The sermon

Just a voice – a breath

Ideas flutter down like dead leaves

And a scent of old times hangs on the vapid air.

Only the occasional eddy of contrived emotion

Stirs the humus on which they fall.

Whirlwinds and forest fires

Are my barely disturbing symbols;

No longer can my heart or mind seed their storm

Or spook the Spirit of the Trees.

The dust settles as I finish.

Lifeless as when it all began,

They shuffle to the door.

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