On a Sunday Morning in January
Free of her father,
she sings, dances, bounces
in the salt and pepper snow.
No choir sings with her,
not even the birds accompany
her voice on this frozen day.
When she nears the door,
her father puts one finger
to his lips, takes her hand.
She should stop singing now.
Stop dancing now.
Stop bouncing now.
In the neat, organized rows
every person sits in silent reverence.
But the little girl
fiddles with her Minnie Mouse mittens,
flips through the rustling hymnal,
shakes the beads in her hair,
and ruffles her pink polka-dot skirt.
Her father cannot stop her–
This solemn scene is beyond her.
Though the statues with their folded hands
and bowed heads surround her,
she taps her ballerina slippers, she escapes–
twirling, twirling, twirling, she joins
the stained saints who lack, but yearn
for such whim, such merriment, such life
in the line headed towards the now-joyful altar.