Old Time Religion

My religion sits on a wooden pew

scuffed and etched like a growth chart

documenting the journey to woman from girl

My religion rest in the pages of a hymnal

yellowed and dogeared

worn soft by the touch of anxious fingers

heavy with the weight of suffering soaked prayers

My religion speaks through the pipes of an organ

base guitar belly

tambourine hands

poems for a tongue and songs for lips

My religion stands with the choir

dressed in a red and white robe

It sings in perfect tenor

a harmony that reverberates in my bones

My religion lives in my Father's house

standing on holy ground

shining through stain glass windows

radiating from a rusty furnace

resting on a century-old foundation

My religion is

a hiding place

a meeting spot

an open invitation