Moving Dayby Luke Johnson
All that was left were the boxes of sermons
collected in her study, thirty years
of readings and reflections, prayers ready
to be gathered and stored away.
I could feel the weight of her words
as I carried the stack of boxes, unsorted,
to my car. With her body of work neatly
stored in my mid-sized trunk, I returned
for the size-five boots in the crux
of the doorway, tossing them into the front seat.
The breeze stroked the leaves above me,
their rustling like a flock of small birds
taking flight, perhaps frightened
by the muffled click of the trunk’s latch.