The Red Glass Holds

Took a wrong turn, or maybe a right one,

and there it was, through a gap in the sun,

the old church. Still squatting on the hill,

looking exactly the same, standing still.

One window, high up, the red pane there,

always the same, catching the air

just so. I remember dust motes caught in its glow,

like tiny, golden things, moving slow.

It hasn't cracked more, or lost its deep hue,

just bleeds its old color, always new.

And I, who used to sit inside, a small, bored thing,

just drove on past, without a single sting

of anything but knowing that it’s fixed,

while everything else, inside me, has mixed.