Thermal Mass

The humidity outside was a wet wool coat

until I pushed the heavy oak doors wide.

Suddenly, the air was a thin, cold note

and I felt the August heat die inside.

I found a back pew near a stone post

and leaned my forehead on the gray grit.

The masonry is indifferent to the host,

or the people who come here just to sit.

For a second, my breath was a ghost on the wood,

a tiny white puff near the altar rail.

It’s the only place where it’s understood

that even the summer is meant to fail.