Every once in a while I think about organized religion and realize it's not for me. That's the story behind this poem.
Sunday Morning
A handful of gulls,
wings white as virtue,
tug at my soul.
Soar
Circle Glide
Once, twice
A simple call and response
Echo of devotion
Their maneuvers needle
this non-churchgoer,
A reminder of what I once
believed.
Chants now
freewheel above me.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
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