Church Time ©

every Sunday when prayers

were said in church, the music

sounded, the barrio streets were

thought distant, people got down

on their knees reciting stories to

the crucifix on the wall behind

the aging altar. light is never

spent in the dark, the eternally

gone loved and people living 

with quiet dignity did the best 

they could living the simplicity of

love to near heaven. in the Spanish

speaking sanctuary those who

are weary belong and like the

sugarcane cutters and coffee

pickers they slice reality into

recognizable moments that beg 

to know the ultimate secrets 

of life itself. in this place of

gathering to find God’s words 

spoken by the forgotten they 

ask ruin for hard times, the milk 

and honey of better days and

the end of the unfolding tragic

American opera written daily

in the name of division and hate

despite the ancient sacrifice that

offers life. 

h. j. Recinos