The Cold Inside

It's not like outside cold.

Outside cold stings and moves.

Church cold is still, is old,

sits in the stone and grooves.

I knelt on a wooden pew,

worn smooth by decades of prayer.

The light came filtering through

the stained glass—colors there.

Red and blue and yellow

landing on the empty bench,

like God was showing

how beautiful and drenched

in cold a place could be

when you stop trying to stay warm.

My fingers went numb. I see

the cold was a kind of form

of truth. Of prayer. Of knowing

that warmth comes from elsewhere,

from bodies, breath, from showing

up when nobody's there.